


keep me warm when Mondays and Tuesdays grow cold

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal, Awkward Flirting, Blanket Forts, Body Worship, Cuddling, Fake Relationship, Fingering, It's Like the Sahara Desert Up in Them Draws, M/M, Oral, Public Displays of Affection, Reaming, SMUT SMUTTY SMUTTERNESS, SamSteveGiftExchange on Tumblr, Stalking by an Ex, Steve Rogers Has No Game, gift for i-will-not-be-caged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 19:56:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9287459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: Sam could never deny Steve Rogersanything.Help interrogate a HYDRA mole inside SHIELD? Check. Fly as Steve’s wing man to stop three Helicarriers? Check. Give the Captain and his partner a place to lay low while HYDRA is trying to kill them? Check. Cover Steve’s six after an assassin rips out the steering wheel of his carwhile Sam’s driving it? Check.So  maybe instead of making Sam look good in front of the girl at the VA reception desk, Steve decides to cover for Sam when they run into his ex while they’re running errands. Because maybe Steve Rogers couldn’t deny Sam Wilson anythingeither.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my gift for the SamSteve Gift Exchange to i-will-not-be-caged on Tumblr. For anyone interested in this pairing and this trope, feel free to visit my other story, If It Walks Like a Duck on AO3. The title of this story came from “A Sunday Kind of Love” by Etta James.

“Okay,” Sam said, smartphone hugged between his cheek and shoulder as he held up two cans of soup. “Star noodles or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?”

Steve’s voice was a scratchy huff, but Sam smiled at the amusement in it. “I ain’t picky, Wilson.”

“Fine with me. Stars for the Captain,” Sam pronounced as he chucked the can into the shopping cart. Nat rounded the corner and paused, arms loaded with plastic bags of produce. She gave Sam a look of irritation.

“Don’t buy Rogers that garbage. Put that back, right now!”

“Steve wanted soup,” Sam argued, shaping his brows into nonplussed arches and leaning forward against the shopping cart handle in his best indolent, you-can’t-tell-me-what-to-do slouch.

“Then we’ll _make_ him some,” she told him haughtily. Nat dropped the veggies and highbrow-looking herbs into the cart, including a bag of tempting Pink Lady apples. Sam heard Steve chuckling on his end of the phone, but it ended on a dry cough. Sam’s brows drew together.

“Take it easy, man.” Sam scowled at Nat’s attempt to grab his phone away from him, swatting her hand away.

“Serum’s doin’ it’s work. I’ll be tip-top by the time you two get home.”

“Steve. Steven Grant. You got yourself _stabbed_.” Sam turned on his Dad Voice. “When we get back, Natasha is going to pour soup down your throat -”

“Homemade soup,” Nat sang, brandishing the Campbell’s can and putting it back on the shelf, despite Sam’s look of warning.

“- and mop your fevered brow-”

“Excuse me?” Nat challenged, quirking a brow at Sam.

“-and wash all of the dirty dishes I saw piled in the sink-”

“That’s going too far, Wilson.”

“- while I boot up some Netflix on the ol’ laptop, tuck you in on the couch and treat you to the brilliance that is the Star Wars trilogy. The original,” Sam clarified. 

“The new ones look kinda fun,” Steve attempted. His voice still sounded like raw beef.

“They’re _not_ ,” Sam assured him. “As your friend, I will never allow you to corrupt your eyeballs with that travesty of filmmaking. Despite your constant questionable judgment and inability to dress yourself, Rogers, I like you.”

“What? What’s wrong with how I dress?”

Sam rolled his eyes at Nat, who was already grinning at Sam’s half of the conversation. “Steve wants to know what’s wrong with how he dresses.”

“Oh, Lord. Give me that.” She made a grabby gesture for Sam’s phone, and he bit his lip at the look of determination she wore. She ticked off points on her fingers as she listed them, even though Steve couldn’t see the gesture. “Rogers. You’re _hopeless._ You _and_ your khakis. I’ve seen more cotton in an aspirin bottle than what went into those teeny, tiny t-shirts you’re always wearing.”

“Oh, good Lord,” Sam muttered. “She went there…”

“Oh, that’s _how it is_ ,” she continued, copping Sam’s favorite comeback. “You’ve got two basic looks: Trendy retiree or douchey gym rat.” Sam snickered at Steve’s voice crackling a little through the phone, even though he couldn’t make out the words. “He says I’m mean,” Nat bragged to Sam. “See-through t-shirt? It’s a little douchey, Rogers.”

“Pay no attention to her, Steve!” (Sam liked Steve in the naughty shirts. He’d never admit it out loud to either of these two, but. Still.) 

Nat continued to listen to Steve’s protests, rolling her eyes back at Sam, but then her eyes widened, and she gaped. “Ex _cuse_ me?!” She tsked. “What do you _mean_ , ‘I can hardly talk?’”

“Ooh,” Sam winced.

Steven Rogers _went there_.

“My uniforms aren’t supposed to ‘leave something to the imagination! They’re supposed to be stealthy.” Sam’s shoulders shook, but he forced his face into sober lines when she pointed a warning finger in his direction. “I’ll have you know that they’re lined in Kevlar… what do you mean, where the heck did they fit the Kevlar???”

“Oh, Lord… Steve, just… let this one go, man! Hang up the phone, Steve!”

“You suck, Rogers,” Nat growled into the phone. “Here, talk to _this_ idiot. The guy who wants to feed you that slimy, fake soup!” She shoved the phone at Sam. “I’m getting orange juice. Back away from that crap.” Sam held up his hands in defeat. Until she walked away, of course. Then, the Chicken and Stars went back into the cart, along with a box of saltines. 

Steve’s serum pulled him back from the brink, but he was still on the mend. Hypothermia. Facial lacerations. Contusions. Abdominal stab wound that barely - _barely_ \- missed his bowel. Bullet wound. Double pneumonia. Acid burns from the river water, contaminated by Helicarrier fuel and hydraulic fluids. More bruises than a two-week-old banana. Broken nose. Orbital fracture. Dislocated, fractured jaw. 

Steve’s gruff murmur of “On your left” from the bed, startling Sam from his reading and the quiet strains of music from his phone, were some of the last intelligible words Steve spoke to him before the surgeons wired his jaw shut. Sam learned how to “speak Steve” after four weeks cooped up with him in the hospital. Sam had a clean bill of health once he finished physical therapy for his fractured shoulder, and once the neurosurgeon ruled out injury to his lumbar spine. Getting kicked off a helipad by a two-hundred-pound assassin after being yanked out of the sky wasn’t great for Sam’s alignment; his chiropractor gave him accusing looks and booked him for a whole raft of appointments. 

So. It was a relief to hear Steve talking at _all_ , even if his mouth still sounded like it was full of marbles. It was just… nice to hear Steve’s voice.

So, Sam leaned on the shopping cart the rest of the way through Giant, letting Nat lecture him the whole way through the Health and Beauty aisle.

“He’s just got Head and Shoulders in his bathtub, doesn’t he?”

“Nope. Johnson and Johnson’s,” Sam corrected her cheerfully.

“We have to save him from himself.” Nat tossed a bottle of Pantene conditioner into the cart, too. 

“Are we almost done here, Your Highness?”

“You mean ‘My Majesty,’” Nat sniffed. “I’m the _Queen_.”

“Hm. La-di- _dah_.” 

Nat and Sam were on a mission of mercy. Steve was home, on the mend in his apartment in DC following the repairs that his landlord made during his hospital stay. Sam was glad Steve wasn’t coming home to acres of broken glass and unpatched bullet holes in the walls. The floor was spotless, no glittering shards or traces of blood to be found. Sam offered Steve his spare room, knowing that living in the scene of an attempted murder wasn’t the most relaxing way to recover from his injuries. But Steve, being Steve, didn’t want to impose.

_Really, Steven?_

So, that left him shopping with Natasha, the woman who had no qualm about kicking a man off the top of a building. Given the circumstances, and Sam’s recent experience with the Winter Soldier, Sam knew he should have found that more offputting. But Natasha was a firecracker. Steve trusted her. And she was playing chauffeur for Sam while his insurance company was in the process of replacing his car. His adjuster responded to his texts and his photo of his totaled car - missing the steering wheel, missing the driver’s side door, hole punched through the roof - with shocked emojis and exclamation points. Sam’s insurance premiums _doubled_. There was nothing in his policy to cover _Attack by brainwashed Soviet cyborg assassin_.

Natasha also enjoyed Marvin Gaye. That was a plus.

Natasha’s uncanny ability to read Sam like a book could be its own negative, however.

“Back to that ‘mopping Steve’s fevered brow,’” Nat mused as they went through the checkout lane. Sam’s cheeks heated up, all the way to his ears. “That sounds like it should be your job.”

“Oh, so you _are_ going to do his piled up dishes! How thoughtful of you!”

“Sam.” Her lips twisted and she stared up at him through her lashes, loading groceries onto the conveyor belt. She brandished the soup can accusingly at him before reluctantly placing that on the belt, too. “I’m a spy. I know things. And you’re not even making me work that hard.”

“We’re not having this conversation,” Sam hummed under his breath, smiling at the bored cashier as he asked them if they found everything they were looking for.

“Maybe not here.”

“Tell me more about your soup prejudice,” Sam countered. Subject: Changed. “What do you have against Campbell’s? You’re a woman on-the-go. Don’t try to tell me you don’t occasionally toss a bowl of questionable processed food into the microwave.” Nat shrugged, and Sam pressed on. “You’re never in the same timezone for longer than a week. That doesn’t leave time to just throw together something in the crockpot.”

“My body is a temple, Mr. Wilson. I won’t desecrate it with partially hydrogenated fat.” She shook the bag of baby kale leaves at him before putting it on the belt. “Food is medicine. Heal yourself by eating right, or kill yourself by filling your body with garbage.”

“Woman, it’s just _soup_.” Sam’s mother cooked kale once in a while, but she boiled it with a great, big slab of fatback (“salt pork,” in polite circles) and served it with navy beans and corn bread. Sam ate decently enough, but he knew Steve wasn’t going to be that picky. Steve grew up boiling everything, by his own admission. Chances are, he’d appreciate Darlene’s kale soup, fatback and all. In the meantime, Nat and Sam were on a mission to make Steve comfortable, and to distract him from his obsession with tracking down their “missing person.” (You just had your stitches taken out, Steve. Chill.)

Nat and Sam turned out of the Giant lot, and Sam caught her ominous look in the rearview mirror. “Hm.”

“What?”

“No big deal,” she muttered as she changed lanes. “Just seemed like that car was quick to follow us out of the lot.” She nodded at the small, red coupe, and Sam glanced back just in time to see a familiar face on the driver’s side, but the man wore a baseball cap and Ray-Bans. Sam’s stomach twisted a little. He dismissed it.

*

Nat eventually prevailed. Kale soup with smoked turkey. There was no brow mopping, and Sam inevitably did the dishes, over Steve’s protests. 

Nat pretended she didn’t notice Rogers sneaking peeks at Sam’s ass every time he bent over to load the dishwasher.

*

The new white Honda Accord EX had seat warmers and a bluetooth plug-in for Sam to listen to his Pandora on the car’s stereo speakers. Steve was grinning at him from the passenger side, and Sam’s stomach was doing funny little flips from that smile. It didn’t hurt that Steve was wearing a North Face pullover in blue dri-fit that fit him like a glove.

“Do you have any idea how much I would’ve killed for something like this growing up in Brooklyn? Car seats that keep your keister warm, Wilson?”

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t even care where we’re going, just keep driving. My butt’s happy.”

All of the immediate one-liners created a traffic jam in Sam’s mouth, trying futilely to escape, but dying a pitiful death. Sam settled for “My new car and I live to serve.” The “Your butt” was implied. 

“I must be special,” Steve boasted. “I’m the first person you’ve driven in it since you got it?”

“Yup. Take a moment to breathe in that new car smell. Soak it in.” Sam inhaled dramatically, gesturing to Steve to do the same with an impatient hand. “Soak it in, Steve.”

“Soaking. Smelling the new car.” Steve drew in a deep breath, expanding that _ridiculous_ barrel chest of his, then coughing a little just to mess with Sam. “Too much new car smell.”

“Just calm down there, Rogers.”

“Where are you taking us again?”

“IKEA.” Figured we’d find you a couch with a few less bullet holes.”

“They give it character.”

“Steven.” Sam twisted around in his driver’s seat to give Sam an authoritative look. “It’s not the Depression anymore. And the bullet holes might scare off the ladies. You don’t have to keep your mutilated couch.”

“It won’t scare off _all_ of them.” Steve stared out the passenger window, and prisms of sunlight flowed over his skin, setting his blond strands of hair on fire. _Why, Lord? You made him look like that. You let him up here in my car._

“It’ll scare off the _right_ ones,” Sam pointed out. “Ask yourself if the future love of your life should be comfortable with gun violence.”

“Don’t let Natasha hear you ask me that.”

That gave Sam pause.

“Sooooo. Uh. You and Nat.”

Steve shrugged. “Me and Nat. What.”

Sam gave him a pointed look, making “go on” motions with his hand. Steve’s expression was cute once it dawned on him that Sam was waiting for him to catch up.

“Oh. We. No. There’s… no. Not me and Nat.”

“No?” Hope flared in Sam’s chest, but he turned his eyes back to the road. His thumbs tapped against the steering wheel before he could calm his hands, but he covered the gesture, pausing to flip through his Pandora feed. “Oh. Sam Cooke. Add this to your list, too. Sam Cooke is _essential_.” Steve made a thoughtful sound as he glanced down at Sam’s phone screen. _Nothin’ Can Change This Love._

“Nope. She’s a friend.”

“Just a ‘friend’ friend, friend? I didn’t catch a little extra sumpin’ sumthin’ vibe from you two?”

“She’s nice. Don’t get me wrong.”

_Nice_. 

Sam’s mind reeled. He’s just placed Natasha Romanoff into the “nice” box without batting an eyelash. Natasha, a woman who survived getting thrown out of a car onto a busy freeway, rappelled down onto the main street and who had a gift for shooting people. With rocket launchers. Five-foot-three inches of asskicking in black leather. _Natasha_.

“But?” Because Sam was in a mood to punish himself, _clearly_.

“Just. You know. That little something… a spark… it isn’t there. It could be. But… it’s just not. I mean, she’s the kinda dame that wouldn’t have given me the time of day, way back when.”

“Okay. ‘Dame’ isn’t common use anymore. Or politically correct. She might punch you, to be honest.”

“I know. Fair enough. I’m sorry. Old habits.”

Sam mentally added a political correctness dictionary to the list of books he planned to leave on Steve’s coffee table when he visited next. “Looks like she has the time _now_.”

“It was the kiss.”

Sam’s double take nearly twisted his head off his neck.

“It was nice. But when she did it… she was working. Acting. And it just didn’t set me on fire.”

“She kissed you.”

“We were out in the open. Right before we dropped in on you to regroup. ‘Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable.’ She drops that on me just as we’re about to be made and kisses me. Threw Rumlow off our tail.”

“Smart woman.”

“Really good at her job,” Steve agreed. “But it was just a job.”

Sam mused to himself, _Are you sure?_ as he went around the block twice when he missed the entrance to the parking garage the first time. They paused to take a parking voucher from the gate and nodded at the attendant. Sam pulled into a decent spot, away from the larger vehicles that were skirting the line, giving Steve plenty of room to get out on his side. They strolled out into the sunshine, and Sam shrugged more deeply into his fleece-lined hoodie and pulled his sunglasses out of the pocket.

“So. Sam Cooke.”

“Essential, Steven. We’re going to expand your education. Your entire consciousness.”

Steve fell into step with Sam, hands tucked into his pockets. “Hm.”

 

They reached the front entrance of the IKEA store just in time to hold the door for a woman who was struggling out with a large crate, a DIY bookcase that was guaranteed to take her _days_ to assemble. Sam and Steve wandered around, testing out upholstered chairs and couches for comfort, and Steve kept picking up price tags and dropping them like hot potatoes. Sticker shock, thy name is Steven Grant Rogers. The man had _no_ chill about money, even living on his soldier’s pension and generous backpay. Sam cleaned up Steve’s kitchen one night and found _plastic utensils_ in the sink. (“Steve. They’re plastic.” Steve: “They’re still good.”) He even rinsed and reused Ziploc bags. But, and Sam wouldn’t judge Steve for this, his own perfect mother Darlene did the same thing, Steve reused margarine tubs as Tupperware to store his leftovers. Sam wouldn’t fault him for being that kind of thrifty. (But, plastic forks? Really?)

Steve looked less than impressed with most of the offerings. “It’s all just so… modular. And… blah. There’s no pizzazz.”

“You can do a lot with it. The point is to get some simple pieces and build the room around it. Add a few knick-knacks to spruce it up a little. Artwork. Throw rugs.” 

“I wouldn’t have to spruce it up so much if it had any ‘pizzazz.’” Steve sighed. “At least you can vacuum under it.”

Sam chuckled. “Not impressed, huh?”

“Hey, that was my ma’s measurement of good furniture. If you could clean under it, it was a good couch.”

That was Darlene’s measurement of a good couch, too. “Hey, Rogers? We could hit up Sears, if you want. They have Nantucket Furniture? It’s more…” Sam searched for the right word. “Geriatric.”

“HEY!” Steve gave Sam a shove.

“Hey. I’m just the chauffeur.” Sam shrugged. “Just a thought. Might be more your style. Grandma Wilson had a lot of stuff from the Nantucket catalog in her second living room. That was the living room me and my cousins weren’t allowed to play in upon threat of an ass whoopin’.”

Steve raised his brows and nodded. “Lead on.”

“Sam?”

A young, friendly baritone stopped them in their tracks, and Sam turned toward its source. His smile, at its fullest, brilliant wattage - particularly when Steve laid a hand against Sam’s lower back to encourage his exit from the store - faltered when he recognized its owner.

“Hey. Bob. Long time, man.”

“You’ve made yourself scarce, Sam. Life’s been good to you, though.” Bob was slender, with dark hair and brown eyes. His skin was slightly tanned and he was wearing too much aftershave, but he had approachable good looks. He wore a dark green Izod sweater and had a pair of sunglasses hooked over the neckline, dark pants and expensive-looking loafers. “Still active duty?”

“No. No, I’ve moved on. I’m at the VA. It’s a better fit,” Sam explained, hating how hollow his voice sounded to his own ears. Then he remembered that Steve was standing by his elbow. “This is Steve. Steve, Bob.” Steve gave him a polite smile and a firm handshake. Bob looked impressed by his grip.

“Easy there, big guy. Wow. Steve Rogers, right?”

Steve shrugged, giving him a self-deprecating smile.

“You’re running in fancy circles now, Sam,” Bob remarked. “Captain America. That won’t give me a complex, or anything…”

Sam made a brief throat-cutting motion, but Bob ignored it. “Maybe Sam’s mentioned me before,” Bob went on. 

“No,” Steve said, nonplussed.

Bob’s smile crumpled a little, but Sam swooped in.

“Bob had already left town by the time we ran into each other,” Sam mentioned. “Bob had places to be.”

And rather abruptly. Not one of Sam’s better choices.

 

Sam’s friend Carol had fixed him up with Bob about two years after Riley died. She casually introduced them at the air base’s gym and not-so-subtly backed her way out of the conversation, leaving them in semi-awkward silence.

“That wasn’t subtle,” Bob had said, giving Sam’s thoughts a voice.

“Kinda wasn’t. She beat feet.”

“She’s normally a little more slick than that.” Sam was sweating triangles in his gray tank top, and Bob’s eyes were skating over him appreciatively.

“So. I take it today was arm day.” Sam straightened up, chest inflating a centimeter or two.

“Every day is arm day.”

Sam and Bob went through the motions. Movies and casual dinners. Furtive hook-ups that seldom found either of them spending the whole night. Bob brushed it off, claiming _My talking in my sleep will just drive you batshit, baby. I’ve got an early day. I’ll call you._ They had fun. They had a good run. Sam began mentioning him more often to Darlene when he went home for Sunday dinners. (“You should bring him around.” “I’ve been trying.”)

Bob was nice enough. What they had was “comfortable.”

Sam called him one night to confirm their date to see _Chicago_ , box seat tickets in his hand. His usual outgoing message was replaced by Verizon telling him that customer’s number was no longer in service. A strange woman’s voice greeted Sam when he called Bob’s work number. “He’s no longer employed here. Is there something I can help you with?” Sam swallowed down the hot, resentful lump and forced a smile into his tone.

“No. No thank you, ma’am. You have a wonderful day.”

 

That left them here. In IKEA, with Steve watching him expectantly.

“Hey, Sam, could I talk to you for a sec?” Bob nodded at Steve for permission.

“We were actually just-” Sam’s words were cut off by Bob’s hasty grip on his upper arm, and Sam followed him out of politeness and _absolute confusion_.

“Sam. Hey.” Bob lowered his voice and snuck a brief, furtive look at Steve over Sam’s shoulder. Steve waved goodnaturedly back, then tucked his hands back into his pockets. “What are the odds of us running into each other here, huh?”

“Small world.” _Too damned small. Of all the stores, Lord, IKEA? Seriously?_ Sam schooled his face into calm lines, but he folded his arms. Bob noticed the gesture, but he plowed ahead.

“Yeah. Look, I’ve been meaning to give you a call. I think we left a few loose ends, back when-”

“When you took off and didn’t leave me a forwarding number.” Sam gave him a searching look. “Where were you? Witness Protection?”

Bob barked out a laugh, then rubbed his nape. “Funny guy. You were always funny. I liked that about you, Wilson. But, um. Anyway.” Articulateness wasn’t the prime reason Sam dated Bob, if he was honest. “It’d be nice to get caught up, if you want.”

“Caught up.”

“Yeah. Bring me up to speed on what you’ve been doing with your life.”

“Playing doctor,” Steve interjected, and Sam nearly jumped a mile when he realized Steve was right back by his elbow, even though Bob had walked Sam a few paces away. 

“Playing… what, now?” Bob looked mystified.

And Steve’s hand, warm and reassuring, rested itself on the center of Sam’s lower back. “Doctor. Sam was helping me to get back on my feet after the helicarriers went down. Guy used to be a trained medic, y’know.”

“Yeah. I knew that.”

Sam’s cheeks were on fire. Goosebumps flared along his arms, which were still folded across his chest. “Sam took great care of me when I was out of commission.” That praise was doing a more than fair job of making Sam forget his own name, but his brain did a complete information dump when the hand at his back slid around to rest on the curve of Sam’s waist instead, giving him a fond squeeze. Sam’s eyes flitted down to Steve’s hand, then back up to Bob’s face. His heart was pounding and he wondered if Steve could _hear_ it with his serum-enhanced ears. Steve was so close, and he smelled like Johnson and Johnson’s and Tide (Nat had little success in getting Steve to upgrade his grooming products), and his body was so damned warm that Sam leaned into him, just a fraction. 

“You guys played doctor?” Bob joked. “That’s funny. Yeah. It’s like a pun, right?”

“Steve’s hysterical,” Sam agreed, turning to Steve for confirmation. But Steve’s smile was fond, eyes dark with… something Sam didn’t recognize. His hand tightened at Sam’s waist again. “Always joking a-”

Steve leaned down, looping his arm around Sam’s waist and bringing him close. He kissed Sam’s mouth, effectively interrupting him and short circuiting every function in Sam’s brain. Name. What he’d had for breakfast. His own birthday. All of it went out the window when Steven Grant Rogers kissed Sam, humming briefly in contentment. The kiss was soft, a statement. Sam opened his eyes, and they were glazed with need.

“-round,” he finished. Steve pulled back, but he didn’t let go of Sam, or stop staring at him. Those pale blue eyes were riveted on Sam’s mouth. Sam lowered his hand when he realized it drifted up to cup his jaw, but it was a reluctant effort.

“I’m hilarious,” Steve murmured. He licked his lips, re-tasting Sam on them, and Sam felt his heart kick in his chest. His pulse was _everywhere_ and he was about to code. “Y’know, Bob, I know you wanted to catch up a little with Sam, but we have a date to shop for a new couch.”

“Oh. You’re...buying furniture?”

“Just the couch,” Steve explained. “We kinda ruined the last one.”

Sam nearly _flatlined_.

*

 

They managed to make their excuses - Bob, more specifically, made his before wandering off to go look at the bookcases, and Steve swept Sam out the door. They emerged onto the street, and Sam leaned on the walk light button at the crosswalk, face still on fire. _Lips_ still on fire. Steve was looking mighty pleased with himself, and he only let go of Sam’s waist once Bob was out of sight. 

“So. Sears next?”

“Steve. What was that all about?”

Steve shrugged, and Sam kept whacking the walk light button. Pedestrians were massing behind them, a couple of them staring at Sam. Cars and trucks flooded past them, still enjoying the green light while Sam fumed.

“That’s not gonna make the light change any faster, Wilson.”

“Yes, it will.”

“No. It won’t.”

“I don’t think IKEA’s your style.” Sam gave the button a couple more slaps. “I’m not dragging you back there. Ever. Okay?”

“Sam.” Steve gently caught Sam’s hand before he could hit it again, and his grip was chiding but warm. “Take it easy.”

Steve was touching him again; he probably felt his pulse jump in his wrist, with Sam’s luck. Oh, this day was going just _swell_ so far. “Sears might be more your speed.”

“Okay. I trust you. You know me pretty well. Hasn’t even been that long, Wilson. I trust you.”

“Good.” Steve let go of Sam’s hand and Sam’s pulse slowed a little, but he still felt the phantom touch. Missed it. “So. Back in the store.”

“Was it too much?”

“Too much for a casual introduction to my ex? Maybe just a little.”

“So he was an ex?”

Sam’s sigh was ragged as the light finally changed. They crossed the street with the tide of pedestrians and headed back toward the subway tunnel. The galleria was only a few blocks away, and Sam didn’t feel like re-parking his car. 

“Your shoe’s untied,” Steve mentioned. Sam stopped, bending to tie it, and he noticed Bob heading out of IKEA and going to a red coupe parked on the street. He put on his sunglasses a a denim-billed baseball cap. _Huh._ He finished his laces and they continued down the stairs to meet the train. 

“He was an ex,” Sam confessed as they bought a fare card. “Not one of my better choices.”

“Was he that awful?”

“I didn’t have the chance to find out. He beat feet. Just left without a word. It’s been over a year.”

“And ‘poof.’ Just reappears?” Steve’s brows drew together.

“Like he just waved his wand.”

“Wow.”

They waited down on the deck, buffeted by the crowd. Sam and Steve leaned companionably toward each other while they talked. “I know that… back there. That might’ve been a little abrupt.”

“That? Oh, no. That happens to me all the time. No can resist this face,” Sam teased. Steve smirked and rubbed his nape.

“Public displays of affection,” Steve reminded him. “Just thought you might need to make a speedy exit.”

“Well,” Sam considered, “it worked.”

 

*

Steve and Sam made it to Sears without any further awkward encounters, although Sam did step aside once when a mother of two toddlers stopped by to ask for a picture with Steve. Sam pretended he didn’t find it mindblowingly adorable when Steve encouraged them to make muscle poses with him and to pretend the toys in the boys’ clothing section were attacking him, so they could save Captain America. 

The mother walked away with a smartphone full of Instagram posts. Sam and Steve scheduled the delivery of his new couch and an area rug to cover the patch of floor that the blood stains hadn’t quite come out of. (“Blood stains are a dealbreaker when you bring a lady home to look at your sketches, too, for the record, Steve.” “I know that.”)

They stopped at the galleria food court and watched the large carousel in the center spin, packed with children and parents who just wanted to rest their feet. They dispatched a couple of soft pretzels with mustard and washed them down with a raspberry Julius. 

“I’m sorry. If it was too much. In the store.”

Sam paused in tearing off a strip of pretzel, and he noticed Steve’s smile was hesitant. Sheepish. And his ears were pink. Sam smothered a smile, sighing. “Shame on you for making a scene, Captain,” he scolded, giving Steve a kick under the table. Steve grinned and ducked his face, tugging on the hair at his nape.

“You just… you looked like, just for a second, you wanted to be anywhere but there, Wilson.”

“Yeah. Well.” Sam dipped the pretzel into the mustard cup, scraping off the excess grains of salt. “He just caught me by surprise. Guess I never thought about what I’d ever say to Bob if I ever saw him again.”

“He looked pretty well off. What does he do?”

“Oh. Bob? He worked for AIM for a while.” Steve’s brows furrowed. “Advanced Idea Mechanics. Tech firm. One of Stark’s rivals, but they specialize in bioengineering.” Steve toyed with his drinking straw, stirring his depleted smoothie with it. 

“I know who they are.”

“Oh,” Sam mused, nodding. “Someone’s been getting caught up on current events.”

“I see their commercials all the time when I’m watching ‘Judge Judy.’”

Sam gaped. “You. You watch ‘Judge Judy.’”

Steve shrugged. “She’s feisty.”

Which Sam learned was high praise coming from Steve. 

“Feisty’s a great description. Feisty. Yup.”

“Y’know,” Steve mused as he continued to stir his drink. “Abe Erskine was a man ahead of his time. I look at what AIM does with replacing people’s lost limbs, regenerating failing organs… it would’ve blown his mind.” Steve became rueful. “He was killed after he gave me the serum. I’m just glad that AIM’s using that technology to help people, instead of cranking out more super soldiers like me.”

“Like you? There aren’t any other soldiers like you.”

Steve sobered, then tore the last strip of his pretzel to bits.

“Maybe just one,” Steve murmured. “He didn’t volunteer for this, Sam.”

“I know that.”

 

They tiptoed around the elephant in the room from the moment Steve woke up in the ICU. They watched the news for updates on the Winter Soldier’s whereabouts on Sam’s tablet, since the hospital’s cable selections were dismal. Sam stopped by to visit Steve, bringing him his mail, watering his plants, and generally being a pain in his ass in the interest of seeing with his own eyes that he was all right, since Those Hard to Describe Feelings that had developed made it difficult not to think about him. Not to worry about him. Not to plant himself outside Steve Rogers’ front door to drive away anything that would do him harm, that would so much as disturb one perfect strand of hair on his head. It made Sam’s gut twist a little whenever he saw that journal that Nat retrieved from her friend at the Kremlin, dog-eared and full of Post-It notes. Sam could tell when Steve had been reading it. He was quieter and more tight-lipped, fists clenched. Those dark memories would stain his eyes sometimes, stop him in the middle of any mundane thing, spoon frozen in his hand, saucepan forgotten on the burner as he lost that piece of himself again, no less devastated with time.

Sam avoided mentioning Bucky’s name. Knowing his worth to Steve, it felt like a sacrilege in his mouth. Blasphemous. Sam realized the barb he’d placed all too accurately when Steve stared out into the distance, leaning on the bridge’s rail, accepting the truth that left him raw, like dreading the lingering dampness after stepping out into the rain.

_“I don’t think he’s the kind you save. He’s the kind you stop.”_

Sam heard the grit in Steve’s voice, saw the slump of his shoulders, like Sam knocked the wind out of him. _“I don’t know if I can do that.”_

Sam hated himself in that moment. _“Well, he might not give you a choice. He doesn't know you.”_

_“He will.”_ A note of confidence leaked into his tone, and Steve met Sam’s eyes, resignation in his face, and Sam knew he was a goner. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Steve, nowhere that he wouldn’t follow that man. It had been a wild ride so far, and Sam still wasn’t looking for the exit.

 

Sam knew that Steve had itchy feet. The Winter Soldier - Bucky - was still out there. Maybe he still had fractured memories. Maybe he was still HYDRA, through and through, despite Steve’s hopes. It didn’t matter. Steve had a clean bill of health and a list of leads. As soon as Steve said “Road trip,” Sam was packing his bags. No question.

“So. What was it like before the serum?”

“Huh?”

“Before you put on the tights.” Steve failed to suppress his smile, which was sheepish and ridiculous.

“Ya don’t even wanna know, Wilson.”

“Oh, I do.” Sam leaned forward, chin in his hands for emphasis. Steve facepalmed, chuckling.

“Right. I think the young people would call me a ‘hot mess?’”

“The ‘young people?’” Sam was incredulous. Steve Rogers, fan of the early bird seniors’ special and Bing Crosby, was trying to sound hip. Cute _and_ tragic.

“I was sick. All the time. Asthma. Hypertension. Arrhythmias. Anemia.” Steve sighed. “The serum straightened my back out. It was crooked. And I can hear clear as a bell out of both ears, now. And I can reach all the stuff on the top shelves without a step stool.”

“Wait… you were short???”

“Aw, Wilson. Ya don’t even wanna know.”

“Tell. Me. _Everything._ Don’t leave anything out.”

Passerby occasionally glanced up from their dry Sbarro’s pizza and Cinnabons at the sound of Sam’s shameless, sputtering laughter. Tales of double dates gone wrong, images of Steve stuffing newspaper into his shoes (“It made me look taller, Wilson! Everybody was doin’ it! Can it, will ya?!?”) and some of the spectacular rejections Steve had whenever he worked up the nerve to ask a lady out had Sam in stitches, clutching his sides.

Steve didn’t care. It was just so nice to hear that laugh, to see that twinkle in those warm, dark eyes. Steve Rogers didn’t have game. But Bucky Barnes wasn’t the only man who would follow him anywhere.

*

Sam dropped Steve at home and checked his mail. He didn’t notice the red coupe a block away, whose driver was listening to a wire tap and drinking a Starbucks Flat White.

*

Steve caught Sam’s eye from the doorway of his group session hall at the VA, holding a drink carrier with two Ventis in it. Sam motioned for him to wait down the hall for him, by the reception desk. His group never minded a visit from Steve - they’d be tickled - but it wasn’t fair to show off his Starbucks when Sam was serving two urns of the crappy roast on the back table. Not his choice, not his budget. He wrapped up the discussion with questions, and he flitted back to the first time Steve had visited him there, remembered his own boasts:

_”After that, I had really hard time finding a reason for being over there, you know?”  
“But you're happy now, back in the world?”_ Steve looked like he really wanted to know the answer, leaning against the doorway, face rapt. It was so easy to talk to Steve.

_”Hey, the number of people giving me orders is down to about zero. So, hell, yeah. You thinking about getting out?”_

_“No. I don't know. To be honest, I don't know what I would do with myself if I did.”_

_“Ultimate fighting?”_ Steve handed Sam’s ass to him when they ran, on-your-lefting him, knowing damned well that Sam thought he was a cocky little shit. (Sam wouldn’t admit that he loved it.)

_”It's just a great idea off the top of my head. But seriously, you could do whatever you want to do. What makes you happy?”_

_“I don't know.”_

It made Sam ache for him, because Steve so clearly _didn’t_ know. 

Sam’s group slowly filed out of the room, and Steve reappeared, looking fresh in dark jeans, a rugby shirt and a baseball cap. He clapped Sam on the shoulder, then tucked a Venti into Sam’s hand. “Sounded like everyone was sharing, today.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Lunch?”

“Lead on.”

Steve chucked the drink carrier into the recycle bin by the door, and Sam felt a little shiver run down his spine when Steve laid his hand at the small of his back again as Sam preceded him out. Friends did that. (Right?)

Right.

Steve thumbed through Sam’s phone as soon as he plugged it into his bluetooth in the car. “Um, excuse me?”

“This lets you see what songs you just played, right?”

“Yes. Don’t you dare skip over Etta, Steve. We’ll have to have words.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.” Because “A Sunday Kind of Love,” when Steve heard it the first time, was a song that made him pause in the middle of what he was saying, and his eyes just drifted somewhere Sam couldn’t follow, but wanted to. “I just want to see what else we’ve been listening to. M’just taking notes, Wilson. Relax.”

“Don’t tell me to relax, mister. I’m the guy behind the wheel, and I’m the DJ.”

“Well. Excuse me.” Steve backed off of the phone, holding up his hands, but Sam rolled his eyes.

“You can look. Just don’t skip my song.”

“I won’t. Promise.”

They drove into Baltimore and stopped at a sports pub a few blocks away from the university’s medical center (Darlene had pneumonia and was admitted there, once; when Sam and Paul weren’t pacing the floor, they were stress eating, and they discovered the pub one afternoon while Darlene was getting a breathing treatment from her RT). Steve and Sam decided to eat at the bar, taking the last two empty stools. They watched a Nationals game while they ate a double order of hot wings. 

“Why haven’t I been here before?” Steve demanded as he dipped a wing into a tub of ranch.

“Because you keep letting Stark and Romanoff drag you to those highbrow places with cloth napkins and bottle service.”

“I think my feet stuck to the floor a little when we came in.”

“That’s ‘character.’ This bar has ‘character,’ Steve. Your feet are SUPPOSED to stick to the floor.”

“Oh.”

They inhaled the wings, and Rogers, Sam decided, had a hollow leg, because he browsed the menu with undisguised longing. Sam stopped their server and told her, “We might have to add on some onion rings. And the grilled bratwurst.” Steve’s face lit up. Sam promised himself a trip to the gym. Tomorrow. Or maybe the day after. As if he read Sam’s mind, Steve grinned and elbowed him. “We could always go for a run after this.”

“Ha-ha. Yeah. No.”

By the time they finished the rest of their order, Sam was groaning, wishing he could loosen his belt. “That was _indecent_. You’re a horrible influence.”

“The worst,” Steve agreed. “Didn’t we pass a Coldstone on the way here?”

“Good Lord…” Rogers was trying to kill him. _Clearly_. “You’re out of control.”

“We can walk it off, then.” Steve waved over to their server, and they settled their bill. “I’ll even let you mop the floor with me at pool.”

Sam snorted.

“Well, I’ll let you go first,” Steve amended. Sam knew Steve was a pool sharp, and Sam wouldn’t put his money anywhere on the table against him. Or against Nat. Or Clint, once Sam had met him. Play pool against a career sharp shooter? No, thank you. Darlene Wilson didn’t raise no fools.

“How about shuffleboard?” Sam offered.

Steve shrugged, then gestured toward the game room.

Sam lined up his discs, rubbing them in the pool of sand at the end of the lane, and he sent the first one speeding down, lining it up with the dash marks. It stopped six inches shy of the white line. 

“Not too shabby,” Steve told him. Sam raised his brows. Steve smirked at him and lined up his own disc.

(Sam liked watching his hands.)

Steve took aim, just a slight flick of those long, dexterous fingers, and he knocked Sam’s disc out of bounds, leaving his own three inches shy of the line. “What?!?!”

“Just a lucky shot.”

“Lucky…!” 

“I could give you a few pointers-”

“Ohhh, no. Not today.”

From then on, it just got petty. The bellied up to the table and shot several rounds, taunting each other, elbowing each other out of the way, and nagging the other patrons to judge how many _millimeters_ off the line each disc was. Sam questioned Steve’s character.

“I thought your serum was supposed to make ‘good, greater.’ It made you better at cheating,” he accused.

“Uh-oh. Somebody call the waaaaaahhhhm-bulance.” Steve invoked Clint’s favorite taunt, one he dropped whenever Steve stopped by for a rousing game of Scrabble with him and Nat.

“Hey. It’s like we just keep having the same thought,” a familiar voice called out, stopping Sam from taking umbrage. He turned and smiled at Bob with little enthusiasm (and even fewer teeth). Bob wasn’t put off. If anything, his own smile widened.

“What are the chances?” Sam edged closer to Steve, motioning to him. “You remember Steve.”

“Couldn’t forget Steve,” Bob agreed, eyes narrowing slightly, but he maintained the same bright smile. “I’m waiting for the UFC championships. They’ll be showing it here in a couple of hours. You two staying for it?”

_Not now_ , Sam thought. “We’re just burning off some wings.”

“Wilson thinks he’s beating me at shuffleboard,” Steve teased, and his blue eyes were twinkling at Sam.

“Aw, Sammy, I could give you some pointers,” Bob offered, and he began to close the gap between them.

“I don’t need any-”

Sam felt Steve take his hand, and he found the cool, smooth weight of the disc in his hand, with Steve’s fingers gently closing Sam’s fingers around it. “C’mere. I’ll show you how I’ve been doin’ it, Wilson. You always overshoot.”

“-pointers,” Sam attempted. His brows drew together, but Steve guided him back to the table, and his arm snuck around Sam’s lower back again, Sam’s hand still wrapped in his light grip. Sam felt warm little shivers at the contact, from all the points of contact between them, and he could smell Steve’s shampoo again. He tingled where the edge of Steve’s sleeve brushed his arm, and he wanted to be annoyed at Steve for _patronizing_ him in front of his ex, but… Sam had to give him a pass this time. Sam laid the disc down, and Steve’s hand covered his knuckles.

“Just lean into it, nice and gentle.”

Sam’s face went up in flames.

“Now line it up,” Steve encouraged,” nice and smooth. Now, give it a sweet little push-”

“Oh, come on, Steve!” Sam sputtered, and he started giggling at the ridiculousness of it. Steve was grinning, but he kept coaching him

“Don’t be too bossy with it.”

“Maybe I _like_ to be bossy,” Sam huffed, while Bob looked on, and he and Steve sent the little disc sliding down the lane. _Whoosh_.

The disc slid right up onto the line, stopping perfectly centered. Sam found himself engulfed - laying it on a little thick there, Rogers - against Steve’s side, with Steve’s arm around his shoulders while Steve cackled.

“Soak in my greatness, Wilson! It’ll rub off on ya!”

“Good Lord…”

Bob stood with his arms folded, practically forgotten. 

Steve and Sam dissolved into giggles, and Steve leaned in and snuck a kiss, pecking Sam on the cheek.

“That won’t keep me from beating your socks off. Don’t try to butter me up.” They were still leaning in close, Sam’s dark eyes searching Steve’s face, and he was biting the corner of his lip.

“I’ll let ya try,” Steve husked.

“So. Uh. When did you two…?” Bob caught their attention (with difficulty) and motioned between the two of them. “...y’know?”

“Uh…” Sam turned to Steve for any clue.

“I met Sam while I was jogging. He was the only other guy up at sunrise. Had the whole waterfront to ourselves.” He didn’t add that he lapped Sam for _miles_ and left Sam a limp _wreck_. “So, it’s kinda been a while.”

“Time flies,” Sam added. 

“Yeah. Kinda does.” Bob turned away from his conversation with Sam and Steve when the server asked if he wanted anything to drink. “I’m gonna just… wait for my friend. Over at the bar. It was good seeing you… two… again.”

Sam and Steve straightened up, and Steve’s arm drifted away as Bob left.

“It’s a little drafty in here,” Sam muttered.

“You’re cold?”

“A little.” Sam glanced at Steve as he reached for the next disc. “You could put your arm back, y’know.”

*

Bob, indeed, met his friend a few minutes later. Sam and Steve hurried past, and Bob ignored them. His companion’s interest didn’t even flicker; he never looked their way.

But his _image_ did flicker incrementally; Bob cursed the weak signal, adjusting the hologram’s settings on the device in his pocket.

*

When Sam and Steve returned to Sam’s apartment, Sam keyed his way inside, with Steve hovering closely behind him.

“Bout time you boys showed up. Sam, you need more channels on your cable package. Stark has all of them.” Nat’s voice nearly scared Sam out of his skin. He stumbled back at the sight of her sitting on the arm of his couch, one ankle crossed over the other, arms folded. Her smile was bland and long-suffering.

“It’s called ‘calling ahead,’ Romanoff. Might want to try it next time. I nearly pissed myself.”

“Yeah, she’s good at doing that,” Steve said blandly.

“Don’t encourage her, Steve!” That earned him a shrug of those muscular, ridiculous shoulders. Nat sighed.

“Look. I’m gonna level with you, Wilson: You’ve been compromised.”

“Wait. What?”

“I found the bugs in here when I was planting my own. I managed to jam the signal. But I had a feeling something was a little off that day we went shopping. The guy who pulled out after us was driving a car registered to HYDRA.”

Sam opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“How did you find that out, Romanoff?” Steve’s arms were folded and he was doing that thing with his eyebrows… there it was. Overprotective and about to jump out of a plane in a New York minute if Sam needed him to. 

“I’ve had some practice. They have certain tells. But really, Sam? A red two-seater? That doesn’t scream commitment. He seems like a douche.”

“Kinda is,” Steve chimed in.

“Hey!” Sam argued. “Can we not call my ex a douche?”

“Sorry,” Steve offered.

“He does appear to be HYDRA, though. That’s definitely a dealbreaker,” Nat told him. “Well, that, and the whole moving-without-telling-you thing. The phone, and everything. I dunno. You tell me if I’m out of line, here. It’s just as well that you guys let that ship sail. Hey, have you got anything to eat?” Nat walked into Sam’s kitchen without the benefit of permission and began to rummage through his fridge. “Ooh, Simply Orange.” She took out the almost-full bottle, unscrewed the top, and was about to take a chug, until Sam’s low growl of correction stopped her.

“Use a glass. We’re not philistines, here.”

Nat reached into the cupboard for a glass tumbler and helped herself. Steve sat down at the dinette table, and Sam automatically went to the refrigerator himself and started assembling cold cuts, bread and mustard. Steve stared at the ingredients and made puppy dog eyes at Sam. “Can I get one, too?”

“You just ate!”

“I burned it off beating your pants off at shuffleboard.”

Nat raised her brows, lips quirking. “Beat his pants off, huh?” 

“I’ll have you know my pants haven’t gone _anywhere_ and I held my own against this guy,” he said, jerking his thumb in Steve’s direction, “before Bob showed up.”

“Ah.” Nat nodded. “So he’s been following you guys, too.” Sam shrugged. “No. Seriously. You didn’t find it odd that he just keeps showing up wherever you two are?”

“I was working at the VA when we were dating. Not all that much has changed-”

“Uh, hello? Souped-up wings? Weekend warrioring with the Avengers? Picking out couches with Captain America?” Nat reminded him.

“Wonder what made him stop working for AIM?” Steve wondered.

“Maybe he got a better offer.” Nat snitched a slice of turkey meat and popped it into her mouth.

“Or one that they wouldn’t let him refuse.” 

“Which brings us back to the original question: Why were you bugging my apartment?”

“Because someone has to watch out for you, now that you’ve started hanging out with this guy.” She motioned to Steve this time. “Occupational hazard, remember? They shoot at him, they eventually shoot at you, too.”

Sam spread the honey dijon the bread, wondering how in all of his days he somehow managed to run away with the world’s deadliest circus. Pararescue training didn’t prepare him for Natasha Romanoff…

Sam was just grateful that SHIELD had a decent health insurance package.

Steve and Nat made short work of the sandwiches and the orange juice - Sam made a mental note to buy more, Steve enjoyed it - and Sam grilled her again.

“So. You found bugs.”

“There was one in every room of the house, in your garage, and attached to your satellite dish on the roof. I still need to sweep your car. Way I see it, he’s been trailing you for at least a week, maybe two.”

“Awful lot of trouble to go through just to rekindle an old flame,” Steve mused. Sam stared at him, and Steve’s eyes flitted away. He folded those beefy arms, and Sam noticed him chewing the corner of his mouth.

He really wished he would quit doing that. It was distracting.

“There’s no spark left,” Sam told him simply. “He could throw a can of gasoline on it, and it ain’t gonna light.”

Steve’s lips curled up in a small, pleased smile. He got up and helped Sam wash the dishes and bundled up the recycling, rinsing out the empty orange juice bottle.

Nat went outside to Sam’s car and reached into her pocket, pulling out a small remote. “What’s that?”

“This? One of Tony’s niftier toys. Check this out.” She aimed it at the car, and strands of blue, fiber-optic light shot out toward the car, rendering a holographic image of it. Three small, red bursts on the hologram indicated the presence of surveillance devices. Nat looked satisfied. “Told you.”

Sam secretly hoped the bugs hadn’t recorded him singing along to his Earth, Wind and Fire station on Pandora or passing gas.

Nat disarmed the bugs and uninstalled them. “I’m taking these back to Stark. We might be able to trace where they were programmed.” She tucked the bugs into her pocket and patted Sam’s shoulder. “Hate to be the one to make you feel paranoid. Welcome to the Avengers, Sam.”

That didn’t help him relax.

*

Steve stayed behind after Nat left. Sam sat on the ottoman, elbows on his knees, rubbing his nape in dismay. “Well. This is a pickle.”

“Sam… it’s okay if you’re rattled.”

Sam huffed, shaking his head. “No. This isn’t me ‘rattled.’ HYDRA’s been stalking my house. My EX is HYDRA. That doesn’t rattle me at all.” Sam gave Steve a rueful smile. “I’m a mark.”

“Not with me around.”

“You can’t just babysit me and watch my every move, twenty-four-seven, Steve.”

“The hell I can’t. I’m camping out on your couch. I’m gonna be your shadow.”

“One: It’s not a fold-out. Two: We both have lives.”

Steve looked a little indignant. “I want you to be safe.”

Sam’s expression softened.

Steve continued. “I don’t want you to have a target on your back. If it’s there, it’s my fault.”

“Don’t.” Sam stared at the grain of the rug, picking at his thumbnail. “Don’t blame yourself. Apparently, I don’t have the best judgment when it comes to dating.” The look in his dark brown eyes was self-deprecating.

Steve’s hand closed around Sam’s shoulder, and a pleasant current of warmth ran down his spine at the contact. He was so close and smelled good, all those clean, comforting, familiar notes of scent on his hair and skin. Sam’s mouth went dry.

“Hey. Did you by chance notice… when we…?”

“When… we…?”

“Y’know. Back at the store. He made a speedy exit when we got cozy with each other.”

Sam felt himself flush, and a hot rash of tingles spread over his skin, all the way down to his toes.

“Cozy.”

“Well. Yeah.”

And Steve removed his hand belatedly from Sam’s shoulder like Sam had burned him, and his cheeks were pink.

_Interesting._

“So. Me hanging out at your house is out, huh?”

“Unless you’re just coming over to watch the game with me, I need my space.” But the vision of Steve beside him on the couch, cozy under a blanket and sipping a couple of beers appealed to Sam more than he wanted to admit. More than anything, Sam didn’t want Steve to think he needed to _protect_ him.

“That’s fine. But… how about the VA?”

“What? While I’m at work?”

Steve looked sheepish. “Would it be okay? Sam… He’s been in your house. I know what it’s like to feel like you have no privacy. Like you’ve been compromised.” Finding spy agency directors bleeding on your couch tended to do that, he didn’t add. Steve’s face… Sam saw the shadow of old betrayals and crushed boundaries in his eyes, in the set of his jaw. He was still hurting. Still didn’t know who he should trust.

“You can come to group, if you want. Go ahead and plan to sit in. Get to know everybody. They’ll make you feel welcome.”

*

 

Steve stopped at the post office to pick up his mail. He wasn’t surprised to see Natasha across the street, in her parked car with the windows down when he came out with a handful of envelopes and his Sports Illustrated subscription.

“Did you bug me, too?” he accused.

“Nah. You’re just a creature of habit, Rogers.”

Steve sighed. Nat chuckled. “So,” she said, “you and Wilson.”

Steve’s expression shuttered, and he suddenly found the man feeding a quarter into a newspaper vending case very interesting. _Look anywhere but into those eyes._ Nat was an ace at interrogating, and Steve didn’t want to be her stoolie.

“C’mon,” she urged. “You two aren’t fooling anyone.”

“There’s no ‘me and Wilson.’”

“Not yet. Not that either of you want to admit.” She leaned back in her seat, arm propped on the edge of the door. “You weren’t just being buddy-buddy to throw Bob off the scent, were you?”

“That wasn’t Sam’s plan,” Steve admitted, “but can we just forget about this, please?”

“The two of you are a couple of goofballs. Seriously, Rogers.”

“What? We’re not goofy,” Steve argued. “Sam’s nice,” he qualified.

“Shared life experience,” Nat reminded him smugly. “You two have it.”

Steve didn’t know what to do with his hands suddenly. He tugged on the hair at his nape and looked away, body language clear that she’d gotten him, and gotten him _good_.

“He might not feel that way about m-”

“He does. Wilson’s an open book. And you’re so obvious. You’re like a Rubik’s cube where all the sides are the same color, Steve. No mystery at all, and zero chill.”

“Zero chill?” He frowned.

“Google it.” She sighed. “That being said, I had a purpose in tracking you down.” Because she didn’t care that it unnerved him that she’d _tracked him down_. “Keep up the front of liking Sam.”

“What?”

“Like what you did in the store. And at the bar. Get cozy. Assert yourself. Claim your territory. I know you think you’re going to compromise Sam’s safety if he’s around you, Steve, but truth be told, he’s a hell of a lot safer _with you_. No one will want to fuck around with him with you covering his six.” And her smile was too much for Steve when she added “It’ll be like protecting him from bullies at the playground.”

“Why are you and I friends again?”

“Someone has to be your voice of reason. Or at least take pictures when you do something stupid after not listening to reason.” She cranked her ignition, and the car roared to life. “Okay. So. You and Wilson. Buddy buddy. Make with the canoodling. He said to meet him at the VA, right?”

The bugs. Nat’s, this time. Of course, Steve fumed to himself. “He did.”

“Wear something nice. Bring cookies. Don’t be afraid of the PDA, this time.”

“I’m not afraid of it. It’s…” Steve floundered.

“It’s, what?”

“It just feels more special when I kiss someone when we’re alone.” He folded his arms. “When I don’t have to stop.”

Nat looked pleased. “You’re a sap, Rogers.”

*

When Steve arrived at Sam’s group, he brought enough coffee for everybody this time, and he sat in the front row of chairs, low-key gorgeous in snug Levi’s, a red hoodie and a baseball cap. Throughout the entire session, his eyes were riveted on Sam. Sam glanced at him periodically - honestly, it was difficult to look _away_ from Steve’s smile or the look of soft empathy in those eyes, the concern he clearly had for the other veterans around him - as he directed the discussion. By now, Sam’s group was accustomed to seeing Captain America duck into their sessions, and they had their own (unshared) opinions about the friendship between the two of them. 

It felt different, today.

Something about Steve, his body language, his whole presence, felt different today. More charged. Pensive. Just… more.

More focused on Sam. _If only he knew_.

And Sam was more aware of his friend - his _friend_ , a reminder he constantly needed, to ground himself - than before. The urge to touch him, and lean into him overwhelmed him, but he squelched it, pushing it down. 

Sam knew the sessions were good for Steve. He was a veteran. A survivor. He knew Steve had nightmares. Stories he’d never tell, except maybe to Natasha, who, by the grace of some cruel, twisted gods, had seen _worse_. Lived through it, laughed at it in hindsight, and was waiting to write the bestseller any day now.

So. They danced their dance.

“I brought a box of the white mocha. Better get it before it’s gone.”

“White mocha doesn’t count as coffee. It counts as dessert.”

“No sweet tooth?”

“Only for Mom’s caramel cake.”

Steve made a needy noise. “So when are we going to your mom’s house?”

Sam huffed. “Are you kidding? Introduce my mom to Captain America? She’d absolutely _fall out_ , Steve.”

Steve looked pleased. Bashful. “I’d… I’d like to meet your mom, Sam.”

“Oh.”

“Bet she’s something else.” 

“I never got to meet Sam’s parents.”

The sound of Bob’s voice, so close, slightly accusing, was jarring. The shock lanced through Sam’s chest, and he tried to school his face into civil lines. “Wow. Fancy seeing you here. This… you remember that I work here?” _What the hell are you doing here at my job?_

But Bob stood there cheerfully, hands in his pockets. “It’s nice. A lot of our old clients at AIM were referred to the Extremis trials from the VA. Did you know that? I used to handle Intake for prospective candidates. What better way to thank them for their service than to give them a new lease on life? To make them whole?”

A few of Sam’s clients glanced toward Bob with hostility in their eyes. A tall man with a prosthetic leg in a red cap muttered, “Easier said than done, pal.”

“There’s Starbucks at the back table,” Sam reminded him in an attempt to draw his attention away from his ex. The airman moved off, but only after shooting Bob another baleful look.

“We’ve come so far with science. We can make a better human being.” He nodded at Steve. “Better soldiers.”

That earned him the Steve Rogers Eyebrows of Disgust. “Science can’t make better soldiers than these. Science can’t replace grit. That’s not what puts soldiers on the front lines, or what brings them home.”

“That’s how _you_ made it home,” Bob quipped, and he smiled at Steve with shark’s teeth.

Steve bit back his reply at the feel of Sam’s hand, fingers curling around his.

“What brings you here?” Sam asked. A tiny vein pulsed in his jaw. He squeezed Steve’s fingers, which were firm and warm. His heart sped up when Steve squeezed back. 

“I need a reason to see my old flame?”

“Bob-”

But Bob held up his hand to get their attention.

“Y’know. Let’s cut this short. Sam, I’ve always liked you. But I question your taste in men.”

With that, Bob reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny remote. A burst of blue-white light streamed from it, coursing through Sam’s body, locking his muscles and sizzling along his nerve endings. He didn’t have time to scream, and he blacked out with Steve’s angry shouts in his ears.

*

It was like the worst hangover Sam ever had. _Scratch that,_ his inner voice of hindsight insisted, _hangovers at least had an awesome story behind them._ His head throbbed and there was a horrible, metallic taste in his mouth. His eyes protested his efforts to open them, and his vision was blurred. His head felt too heavy, sagging every time he attempted to raise it.

The wall was stone-cold at his back. The shackles at his wrists allowed incremental movement; he could flex his fingers, but he was already losing circulation in them. His muscles screamed that he’d struggled. More importantly, that he’d _lost_.

“Hey, sweetheart. Open up those pretty eyes, Sammy,” Bob crooned. His voice was magnified by an intercom, and Sam managed a glare with his slack features. “Aw, Sam, don’t take it so hard. I know breakups are rough.”

“Giving… yourself… too much credit,” he rasped. His dry tonsils felt like they’d been filleted. “I stopped waiting for you to call after a week.”

“I liked that about you. You weren’t clingy,” Bob told him, and then he sighed. “So. That ship has sailed. Can’t say I’m not jealous, though, Sam. Never know what you’ve got til it’s gone. I mean, I got thrown aside for _Captain America._ How does that even happen?”

_Fuck._ Sam felt cold panic lance into his chest. He strained at the manacles and his eyes searched the detainment room. It was industrial; he saw a crawl space above in the grated vents, bald rafters and pipes, and small sprinkler heads. HYDRA kept their safehouses up to code?

“Where’s Steve?”

“Safe and sound. He was a little pissed, though, when we told him what we planned for you. Your boyfriend has anger issues, Sam. You’re a counselor. You should know better than that.”

That didn’t help. Sam’s stomach twisted. _Steve_. Fuckfuckfuck.

“So we put him under.”

“Put him _under_ -”

“Cryo,” Bob explained. Sam only saw his own warped reflection through the one-way mirror. “Might cool that hot head of his. Sure as hell made him more agreeable.”

“God,” Sam muttered. “HYDRA. My ex is with HYDRA. My sister told me not to date a goddamn Gemini.”

“That’s not very nice.” Bob sounded a little indignant.

“And you never replaced the milk when you drank the last of it. And you trimmed your goddamned toenails in bed, you thoughtless heathen. Seriously. Didn’t your mama teach you better than that? Practically cut my legs to shreds. You’ve got nasty feet.”

Sam heard mixed chuckles in the observation room before Bob shushed them. “That’s enough of that.” And Sam’s body jerked, arching ineffectually as the current of electricity burned through his limbs. _It felt like fire._ Oh, Lord, he was gonna pass out…

“And… never… did the dishes. Farted in your sleep.”

More snickers sounded from the intercom. “Goddamn it, I said that’s enough!”

Sam screamed until he was raw.

Some insane voice in his mind told him, _It’s worth it. Put him on blast._

He heard the voices lower from the observation booth, murmuring about _Don’t kill him yet_ and _he’s a viable candidate._

“Don’t… don’t… you…”

“Don’t what, sweetheart?” Bob’s voice was cloying. Mocking.

“Don’t follow my Instagram, anymore, with your stalking ass.”

*

When Sam woke up again, lab coat-garbed technicians with the red logo and green safety goggles were puttering around the room. Sam felt the burn of an IV in his arm and small 3M monitors stuck to his chest and throat. “The hell…?” His lips were cracked and bleeding and he was still dazed.

“Hi, again,” one of them chirped. “Can you tell me what day it is?”

“Tuesday,” he said, then added, “asshole.”

“He’s fine!” he called out to the rest of the group.

“Feisty,” Bob interjected. Sam finally saw him and made a noise of disgust.

Bob was wearing a bright green combat suit in Kevlar-lined leather and safety goggles on his head. He was holding a hypodermic needle filled with cloudy liquid and smiling benevolently at Sam.

“You were also so cute while you were sleeping. Like a little angel.” Then he amended, “a drooling angel.”

Sam felt the cool wetness around the corner of his mouth and groaned.

“It’s okay. Here. Let’s just get that.” One of the technicians offered him a Kleenex, daubing at the track. “That’s better, isn’t it? So. We’ve got so much to catch up on, and I’ve finally got your attention. Steve’s so overprotective. Back when I left AIM, I had to sign one of those pesky ‘noncompete, retention of intellectual property’ agreements. Had to promise not to walk away from the corporation with any of their tech secrets, plans or formulas. So, _technically,_ Extremis could be considered AIM’s ‘intellectual property.’ But the funny thing about HYDRA and technology, Sam? We think it’s best when it’s shared.” Then he stared off, nodding. “And _controlled_. So, you like to help veterans? So do we!” he cheered, as though he was trying to sell Sam Amway. “We get those wounded warriors back on the field! And they’re even stronger than ever!”

“You make them _breathe fire,_ ” Sam spat.

“A tiny glitch. That’s not a drawback, when you look at it, Sam. We’re still working on the side effects. Mr. Aldrich downsized his staffing a little, which caused a few hiccups - he killed Maya Hansen, she created it, wasn’t much of a team player,” he told him, “so we have to re-invent the wheel. Still didn’t hurt our bottom line. I’ve got a great benefits package, paid vacations, stock options, a flexible spending plan for my mother’s adult day care, she has Parkinson’s… she was too frail for the Extremis trials, which is a shame. But the good news is, _you_ get to participate.” Bob brandished the needle. “Sedate him,” he told his assistant.

“Anesthetic?” he inquired hopefully.

“He’s already had the maximum dose. And I want him to get the full experience. We’re making a memory, Sam. We didn’t get to make many when we were together. You know what I miss? Marathoning Star Trek on Saturday mornings. That was fun.”

“You’re going to want this,” Bob’s assistant told him as he held up a mouthguard.

“Man, get away from me with that thing!” He jerked his face away, until Bob reached up and snapped a head restraint around his forehead that squeezed his temples. Sam felt like he’d pass out again, but sheer anger kept his mind alert.

“Safety first. Keeps you from biting your tongue.” Bob smiled at him like a cat who got the canary. “You did crazy things with that tongue.”

“Will you just shut up?” Sam eventually lost the battle with the tech and the mouthguard, and he finally managed to cram it in there. Sam breathed roughly around it, glaring with open hostility at Bob.

“So. Let’s get started! Fair warning, though, Sam… this is gonna burn a little.”

Sam’s eyes widened in horror. His cries were muffled but frantic.

 

Sam’s assistant (his nametag said “Carl,” and his title was “Intern”) went to the computer monitor and typed in a few commands, and a holographic image of Sam arrayed itself in the air around them. “You’ve lost weight,” Bob mentioned easily. “About ten pounds. Must be all that jogging with Mr. Universe down the hall. Never knew that was your type…” And sure enough, his weight and height, body fat percentage and other vitals were listed on the display. His blood type. His pulse, which was dangerously rapid. He was tachycardic, which was no surprise because _who wouldn’t be scared shitless_ of their crazy ex experimenting on him with illegal genetic manipulation technology?

Sam didn’t want to be enhanced. He didn’t want the uncertainty or for anyone to find him a threat, or to have the government breathing down his neck. Being on the Avengers payroll didn’t guarantee that he would last until retirement. Bob reached up and stroked Sam’s cheek, and he moaned in protest at the unwanted touch. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You’ll feel like a million bucks. And don’t worry about Steve. We’re gonna keep him on ice ‘til we need him. You might even be able to warm him up when he thaws out! See… it’s _convenient._ ”

 

Sam sent up a prayer. His skin was breaking out in a rash of sweat and goosebumps, and his arms strained from the cuffs. Steve’s face was burned into his consciousness, and he wished he could see him again, and finally tell him how he felt. _Damn it._ See what pussy footing around it got him… Steve deserved better than that. _A day late and a dollar short, Wilson. Suck it up._

A tear squeezed itself from the corner of his eye. Strangely, Carl’s lips tightened.

“Getting a little emotional, buddy? It’s okay,” he soothed. “We’ve had some great outcomes. A sixty percent success rate is nothing to sneeze at.”

Sam’s accusing look and furious grunts through the mouthguard made him recoil. “Right. I’ll just… go over here.” He blushed sheepishly and moved out of kicking distance (if Sam could only move his feet).

“Let’s get this done,” Bob sighed. His technician turned on the machine to Sam’s left, its loud thrumming filling the room and pounding through his body, warping his pulse to its rhythm. Bob went to the IV drip bag and dialed the clip on the tubing, tapping the needle to remove the bubbles inside. “You’ll thank me, Sam.”

 

_CLANGGGKKK!_

The grate in the ceiling vent exploded out and hit one of the technicians in the head. Sam watched him crumple and the rest of the room run for weapons hidden in consoles and holstered on walls. “BOB! It’s… it’s SHIELD!” Carl cried, voice panicked. His hand shook as he loaded a clip into the gun. A hail of bullets pelted the vent, scattering shrapnel. Sam coughed on the scent of gun powder, and he spit out the guard.

Small, portable stingers flew out from the vent, along with a familiar looking arrow. When the arrow impacted with console, it released a sedative gas. Sam tried to hold his breath, but particles of it made his vision blur again; through the haze, he saw Nat in her Widow suit, shooting stingers at the technicians, while Clint went to town, taking out the swarm of HYDRA operatives who flooded into the lab once the klaxons sounded. Both of them wore breathers. The techs and operatives weren’t as well prepared. A few of them gagged, retched and dropped.

“I thought you disabled the alarms,” Nat accused Clint, who just shrugged.

“I thought I got ‘em all.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m bringing Tony next time.”

“That hurts, Natasha. You wound me.”

“I’ve always got to clean up after you knuckleheads.”

“Nat? Don’t forget his mask.”

“Oh. Right.” Nat fought her way through three operatives. Teeth crunched from the impact of her boot. “Excuse me. Pardon me. _Excuse me._ ” Nat reached Sam, leaving unconscious men in her wake, and he snapped the mask over Sam’s face. With the click of a button, it pumped oxygen into his starved lungs, eradicating the particles of sedative. “You look like hell, baby.” Her green eyes above the edge of her breather managed to crinkle, smiling at him in sympathy.

“Woke up… on... wrong side of the bed,” he muttered.

“I’m getting you out.”

“Okay,” he agreed weakly. “Wait… wait.”

“What?”

“Steve.”

“Sam, he’s okay, just let me get-”

“STEVE.”

She gave him a look of understanding, right before she wheeled around and shot an operative sneaking up on her left with one of her stings. “We’ll get him. It’s okay, Wilson.”

“Less talk. More shooting,” Clint suggested from across the room. But he was having a good time, enjoying the small, modified crossbow that Tony built. The taser arrows were his favorites, lightweight and strong enough to tranq the Hulk. (Bruce wasn’t crazy about the field trials, but. Oh, well.) The cries of the technicians as he took them out began to dwindle. 

“Nobody invited you,” Bob interjected. He held a long-barreled blaster on Nat as she released his head restraint, pressing it up against her temple.

“Man, why did you do that?” Sam muttered in disgust.

“He hasn’t been paying attention,” Nat decided. 

She disarmed him and caught him in a leg choke that Clint would brag about for _weeks_. Sam felt vindicated when Bob’s pleading reached him, and he cracked a tiny smile, the most that his dry, abused lips would allow.

*

They made their way through the corridor, taking out the rest of the guards en route. “Tony. Rendezvous at the north end in five.”

“ _Someone’s feeling confident_ ,” Tony’s voice crackled through Nat’s comm. 

“Piece of cake,” she assured him. “He’s through here.”

“How’d you know we were here?” Sam demanded.

“Eh. Bugged you. Slipped one on you when I saw you last. They’re small, but they get a decent signal.”

Sam didn’t know whether to feel reassured or scared. “Anyone ever tell you you’re nosy, young lady?”

“Concerned, Sam. I’m concerned. There’s a difference.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Clint scolded. “Hey, look! It’s a secret door!”

“This one?” _DANGER. No One May Enter Except Authorized Personnel._ “Clint? Wanna do the honors?”

“Could’ve just gone through the vents,” he complained. “You and your fancy entrances.”

“Gotta make a statement.” Clint aimed another compact arrow from the crossbow. “Get clear!” It’s head adhered to the steel door, and Clint and Sam covered Nat, shielding her as they lunged quickly away. Three seconds elapsed, and the arrow made a keening whine before it exploded, taking the door panel with it. 

“Breather,” Clint told Sam, tapping his. “Once you use one, you never go back.”

“This from the man who huffed paint fumes as a kid,” Nat muttered.

“I didn’t huff them!” Clint argued. “I just liked how they smelled.”

Sam ignored them. He hurried into the lab, just as imposing as the one where they’d pulled him from, but his legs almost gave out when he saw Steve in the tank.

It was shamefully small, giving him just enough depth to float. They’d stripped him - Sam would never unsee that sight, Steve’s unconscious face, mask over his face, connected to an air hose. Myriad IVs were placed in his hands, elbows and ports in his chest, even one in his temple. His skin was bluish and pale, veins standing out like routes on a road map. His blond hair fluttered in the water currents in the tank, and the monitors showed his vitals, much like they had Sam’s.

“You can’t take him,” Carl told them from the doorway. “And… I’m sorry, Sam, but we can’t let you leave, either. It’s nothing personal. I mean, you were a pararescue,” he gushed. “Do you know how cool that is? You guys are badass!” But he had a weapon trained on them despite his self-deprecating smile.

“Carl. Please. Just… just don’t.” Sam was _done_.

“Gotta admire his enthusiasm,” Nat told Clint.

“Yeah. No.” 

Clint flung a taser arrow at him, and Carl’s eyes rolled back in his head as he tumbled to the floor, gun skittering across the concrete.

“How would they even advertise for an internship with HYDRA?”

“Craigslist, I guess.”

“Huh. Yeah. Okay.”

Sam ignored them and went to the monitors. “Is Tony still on the comm?”

“He’s coming.”

“Tell him to get in here and crack the codes. This damn thing needs a password.”

“What are you doing?”

“We can’t just-”

“The hell we can’t,” Clint told him. “Might wanna step out into the corridor again, pal,” he offered. And out came another plastique-tipped arrow, which he fired directly at the tank. The keening signaled its impact, and Nat found herself snatched away from the console as Sam ran them both out into the corridor.

“Hey!” she yelped. But she didn’t take it personally. Like Steve, Sam was overprotective. Unlike Steve, he wasn’t serum-enhanced. The way he tackled her to the floor couldn’t have tickled for him. Poor baby would be bruised from head to toe in the morning.

And the cryo tank?

_PONNNGG-CLLAAANNNNGGGKKKK-SKAAASSHHHH!_

Acres of shattered glass washed across the floor, spread out by the thick, viscous suspension fluids. Steve’s body collapsed, flung free from the rush. Clint rushed to him from behind the console, but before he could touch him, Sam was tugging him away.

“Steve!” Sam shouted. “Steve! Oh, God… don’t be dead.”

“Give him some room, Barton,” Nat said softly, pulling him away while Sam gathered his limp form against his chest, gently turning him (with difficulty, since Steve wasn’t light). His face was pale, and Sam couldn’t find his pulse. He jerked off the hose and managed to pry the mask off his face. Steve’s hair was plastered to his skull. Sam laid him down, laced his fingers together and began chest compressions.

“Damn it, Steve! Breathe, man!”

“Tony will be here in a minute, Sam, he-”

“Help me or get out of the way,” Sam hissed. His muscles flexed, arms hands snapping down in short, neat thrusts. “I’m sorry, Steve. I’m so sorry…”

“No time for that, Wilson,” Nat told him.

They timed his compressions for frantic, agonizing minutes. Steve’s sternum was hard as a rock, barely giving way beneath Sam’s hands, but he wouldn’t stop, not until he saw some signs of life. He leaned down and gave Steve two breaths, covering his mouth with his, and his own heart was pounding, his brain beating out a tattoo, _Wake up, Steve. Just wake up. Please._

More compressions. His arms burned, and his eyes were watering, a low sob working its way out of his chest. “Breathe, damn you, Rogers!”

Steve’s chest spasmed, and he coughed, vomiting up fluid and gasping in deep, thirsty gulps of air.

“I thought that was an air mask.” Clint looked confused.

“It’s cryo. It pumps the fluid into him, too. Filters it enough that he can breathe,” Nat explained.

“How do you know so much about it?”

“Red Room,” she shrugged. “And I have sources at the Kremlin.”

They heard low clanking in the corridor, and Tony entered in his Mach Ten suit. His visor opened, and he peered around the room.

“This looks unsanitary. Oh...c’mon! Cap’s naked?!” And he retracted his visor, making a sound of shocked horror. “I can’t unsee that…”

But Sam could only see Steve. Those watery blue eyes were staring up at him, flitting around him, then zeroing back in on his face. “Hey,” he rasped. “What’d I miss?”

Sam smoothed back wet tendrils of his hair with a shaking hand. “Not much. I’ll fill you in once we’re somewhere a little less HYDRA-infested.”

“Okay… Sam. Nice… nice mask.”

“They’re all the rage.”

“I’m cold.” And Steve started shivering, teeth chattering. Sam rubbed his arms and gathered him against him. He smelled clammy, like suspension fluid and whatever drugs they’d pumped into him while he was in there. Nat began disconnecting his IVs and leads. Small pinpricks of blood spurted up where she removed them, leaving ugly red, splotchy patterns over his chilled skin. The urge to touch him, to pass his hands over him to make sure he was whole was overwhelming, but he just held onto him, lending him his support and what warmth he could spare. Steve’s skin felt like _ice_. 

Sam was never gladder to see anyone in his _life_.

“You’re crying, Sam,” Nat murmured.

“No’m not.”

“Okay,” she allowed.

“You’re naked,” Sam informed Steve.

“Sam? When this is over… can’t we not talk about this?” The words were difficult to manage through the chattering of his teeth.

“Whatever you want.”

“Pictures, or it didn’t happen,” Clint whispered gleefully. Nat elbowed him sharply.

“Not on your life, Barton. Don’t you dare.”

*

“I keep telling you, I’m not that kind of doctor anymore,” Bruce insisted. “JARVIS, scan Captain Rogers and give me his core temperature.”

“The Captain is hypothermic, sir,” the AI informed them matter-of-factly.

“Think th-they kn-new that,” Steve chattered. He was convulsing and shivering in the bed in the Avengers Tower infirmary, huddled under a warming blanket. Bruce hooked him up to leads, but no IVs. Steve balked at the offer of a sedative or any painkillers, even though the process of thawing was excruciating.

“Where’s Sam?” he asked.

“He needed a minute. He’ll be back soon,” Nat told him as she sat on the edge of the bed. “I think he might appreciate a little room to breathe.”

“Think I would, too,” Clint admitted, “if I were him.”

“So. HYDRA. Sam’s ex was HYDRA,” Bruce said thoughtfully. “How’d they meet?”

“Match,” Clint joked, until Nat swatted him. “Ow…”

“Don’t. Don’t joke,” Steve insisted, looking upset. His brows were beetled, a sign they’d overstepped.

“Aw… c’mon, Steve. In a few weeks, we’ll be laughing about this. What doesn’t kill ya makes a damn good story over a few beers.”

“Barton,” Nat warned again.

“What?!?! I can’t joke? No?”

“ _No._ ”

*

Sam lingered in the shower, just listening to the water pound the tile, letting it drown out the sound of his throbbing pulse and the remembered gunfire. It beat down against his muscles, easing some of their ache, but Bruce’s offer of pain pills was tempting. 

He wanted to feel grounded. Safe. _Worth_ being saved. The old feelings rose up with the echoes of screams, the stench of smoke and cinders. He wanted to throw out the notion that his karma was off if things could go so far sideways that his ex-boyfriend could kidnap him. (Sam wondered if the time that he begged off going to youth group with a feigned stomach virus so his girlfriend could meet him in the basement for a groping session when he was fifteen had anything to do with it.) 

The helplessness. That was what he’d remember. The lack of a choice. Bob’s smug look and cavalier disregard for his safety, and the chilling, unacceptable - _inconceivable_ knowledge that Steve was deep in the complex, frozen in a familiar nightmare. Reliving his own doom. Sam’s breath shuddered out of his chest. He rubbed his eyes, trying to erase the vision of him in that damned tank, pale and unresponsive, at the mercy of the people who wanted to destroy him. Alone, in that cold, dark void. 

The spray ran lukewarm. Sam slapped off the taps and stalked out of the shower, grabbing a towel as he entered his suite. He went to the modular dresser (IKEA, of course) and jerked open the drawer, whipping out briefs, a soft gray undershirt, and loose pajama bottoms. It was early in the evening, but Sam wasn’t going out to face the world. The Tower was stocked with alcohol, because Tony. Sam had the delivery numbers of five pizzerias memorized, his laptop already logged onto his Netflix queue, and his cell phone silenced. His parents blew up his messages, but he just couldn’t… not yet. Two explosions decimating a warehouse just outside the business district was worth a few news vans and ticker-tape headlines on CNN. Sam wanted to sleep for a week.

He padded down the corridor in his no-show socks, hair still damp. He ran into Nat at the elevator as she came out of it, but her face lit up as she grabbed his arm.

“What-”

“You. WIth me. Quick detour.”

“I’m headed to the kitchen.”

“Don’t worry about dinner. It’s taken care of.”

“Who ordered in?”

“I did. Had the grocery store deliver.”

“Nat, I’m not up to cook, I just want... “

“I know that, silly. I don’t expect you to cook. Not tonight. It’s taken care of.”

Sam made a face. “Is it okay if I take it upstairs, then?” Sitting at the kitchen table or in the communal area didn’t appeal to him yet. Coherent thought and polysyllabic words didn’t even appeal to him yet. _A week in bed. Maybe two._

“Not tonight, buddy.” They were already headed downstairs, but Nat said “Basement level, JARVIS.”

Sam stiffened, but Nat gave his arm a light squeeze. “Sam. It’s okay.”

“Can… can we go somewhere with windows? A big room?”

“I’m going with you. There’s someone who really wants to talk to you. He’s getting cranky about it, too. And you both need dinner.”

Sam’s eyes burned and his throat felt dry. He stared down at the floor, huffing out a shaky breath.

“Sam. He was scared for you. He still is. And he’s mad at himself, because Rogers is a big doofus. You know this by now.”

Sam shook his head, and he rubbed his eyes again. He grip on his arm was insistent. “Sam, he cares about you so much.” Sam’s stomach was dipping with the sensation of descending so many floors in Tony’s express elevator, and knotting with tension when he thought of Steve when they first brought him into the infirmary. Sam had to step aside and let go of his hand as Tony’s bots ferried him out on a stretcher, after he’d kept him locked in his grip under the threat that someone would steal Steve away from him again. _Not again._

“I don’t know if I can do this.” The words sounded small and strained. 

“He needs to see you. You both owe each other that much. And for God’s sake, Wilson, sit down and talk to him. Be constructive. Use your words. Use small ones for Steve. Might even want to show him your Dad Face.”

“I don’t have a Dad Face,” Sam argued, and he swiped a hint of dampness away from the edge of his lashes. His voice was so hoarse. Nat pretended not to notice the tremulous edge and the way his hand shook.

“Show it to him, anyway.” They reached the basement, and Sam hesitated a moment before they stepped out. Nat adjusted her grip, looping her arm through the crook of his, like they were kindergartners coming back from first recess for graham crackers. The basement level was still spacious (Tony didn’t care for closed-in spaces, either, after surviving a cave-in), but Sam still felt too hemmed in by all that steel, chrome and concrete. They passed Tony’s small workroom, plastered with posters of hair metal bands and hot rods, and they made their way into the infirmary. Sam caught a whiff of a familiar scent, and his stomach actually growled in response. Bruce looked up from his holographic display.

“That fractured rib on the left is beginning to knit itself back together. That’s gotta make you happy,” he said brightly, even though Bruce’s hooded brown eyes still looked melancholy behind his reading glasses. “Hey, Sam. Come to visit the sickie?”

Because Tony’s horrible sense of humor was contagious.

“Hey,” Steve croaked, giving Sam a halting, brief wave. 

He looked battered, but his color was back, which relieved Sam, but this was too familiar. His memory flickered back to a different patient bed in a too-small room, mini-blinds over the door pane, smelling like Virex and lemon deodorizer. There were tiny cuts covered with plasters where they’d removed the IVs. His ribs were bandaged and his arm was in a cast. 

“Hey.” Sam’s voice was strained, and he tried to smile. He walked up to the bed and paused by the arm rail. “On your left,” he teased.

“Good one.” Steve attempted a chuckle, then winced when it hurt. 

So many emotions flitted over Sam’s face, and Steve looked frustrated, curling his good hand in the bed sheets. “Is this gonna happen every time you bring me coffee?”

“Not if we do the drive-thru next time. There’s a Starbucks with a really nice one that just opened up down the street. Parking lot’s funky trying to get in, but I wanna buy you one of those smoked butterscotch mochas.”

“You want me to get diabetes?”

“No. They’re delicious. I don’t want you feeling deprived.”

Steve was still bundled up in bed, but Bruce turned down the setting on the warming blanket, and Steve raised the head of the bed, groaning a little as he sat up.

“This isn’t so bad,” he lied. “I was gonna get caught up on ‘I Love Lucy,’ anyway.”

Sam smothered a laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“Heck, no,” he argued. “That woman was a genius. And a real looker.”

“Good Lord,” Nat tsked. “I promised you dinner.”

“Can you manage?” Sam asked Steve.

“Overbed table,” Steve told him. Sam rolled it up to the bedside, and Nat came in with a large serving tray. Sam released a crack of laughter when he saw its contents.

A plate of turkey sandwiches, thick with lettuce and tomato, Dijon mustard tickling his nostrils. And two bowls of Campbells Chicken and Stars. Steve shook his head, but he grinned.

“Hope you’re hungry,” Nat trilled. “I promised Clint we’d watch _Stranger Things_ together.”

“Fine, then. Don’t sit at our table,” Steve accused.

“And you don’t get to wear pink on Monday, either,” Sam added.

Steve laughed outright, and even Nat looked impressed. “You understood that reference?”

“I’m getting caught up.”

“On that note. Bye.” She sailed out of the infirmary and they listened for the sound of the elevator doors. Bruce spared them a glance, then closed down his display. He rebuttoned his lab coat and gave them a salute. 

“Hey. Uh. I’m gonna just… head upstairs for some chai and some fresh air. I’ve been down here a little too long. The Other Guy isn’t crazy about…” and he gestured to the lab. “Y’know.”

“Night, Bruce,” Sam told him.

“Don’t work too hard,” Steve added. 

And that left them alone. 

“Steve.” Sam’s breath rushed out. 

“Hey, Sam,” Steve repeated. “You’re here.”

“We’re both here.”

And his body shuddered with the sheer weight of that knowledge, that they almost _weren’t_ , that so many things lingered between them, unsaid and barely acknowledged. Sam’s hand gripped the arm rail, and he tried to offer Steve a smile, but his face felt numb and uncooperative, and his brows drew together. “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said quietly. “Not to you.”

“Sam…”

“They froze you.”

Steve’s large hand covered his, his grip firm enough to be soothing, and his skin felt warm enough to reassure him. Steve was there, staring up at him and nodding. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Sam. All right? We made it. I’m here with you.” And his eyes were greedy for Sam, roving over him, cataloguing Sam’s bruises, the circles under his eyes, an ugly burn mark below his clavicle where the taser dart hit him. Myriad small scratches and a tender laceration on his cheek. 

“You. You had to live through that again.”

“Sam. Don’t. Please? You don’t have to… here. C’mere.” 

Because Sam never told anyone else they weren’t allowed to cry. His eyes burned and he felt hot wetness on his cheeks, dripping onto his undershirt, and he didn’t pull away when Steve pulled him down, ignoring the barrier of the arm rail. Steve’s shoulder felt round and firm, and he felt the barely restrained strength in Steve’s arms when they wrapped around him. 

“They shot you,” Steve croaked. “They bribed that guy in your group. I heard ‘em when they showed up in one of those vaulted trucks. They were going to include him in the Extremis trial. All he had to do was keep you in his sights and report back to Bob when we were both going to be here.” Sam’s chest was tight; it felt like iron bands were squeezing his ribs. Steve’s hands stroked his back. They hit me with a tranq. It had a neurodisruptor. My serum didn’t even touch it.” Guilt filled his voice. “It was like everything stopped.”

Sam nodded against his neck, and he regretted the tear stains he left on Steve’s infirmary gown. “That’s how it felt where I was standing. When I woke up, you weren’t there.”

“Yeah. About that. I don’t… you were right. My bed’s too soft. And it’s too big.”

Sam pulled back, and laid his hand on the side of Steve’s neck, stroking his jaw with his thumb. Steve’s eyes were bloodshot and wet. “You’re huge. How’s it too big?”

Steve’s laugh was breathy and resigned. “It’s too goddamned empty.”

“Okay. See. I can help with that, too. We don’t have to go out and buy a smaller one.”

“Thank God. Don’t take me back to IKEA, if ya care about me at all, Sam.”

“It’s a promise. It’s not a date.”

Steve blushed, eyes darting down to his hands. At Sam’s, when he took it. Steve liked the shape of his tapered fingers, the smoothness of his dark skin. 

“Then when are you gonna take me on a real date?”

“Is this you, asking me out on a date?”

“About that.” Steve licked his lips. “This might be a good time to… I mean, I… y’know when we were in IKEA, and we-”

Sam ignored the bed rail again and Steve’s words died away at the feel of Sam’s fingers sliding around the curve of his nape, at the way his dark eyes dilated and filled with heat, and his jaw raised itself in full cooperation with Sam as he closed in on him, shutting him up in the best way he knew how. Sam’s lips were hot and soft, and Steve smothered a groan from how good they felt on his. Sam’s mustache rasped against his skin; Steve yielded to the kisses, each one asking Steve silent permission. Steve’s good hand reached up and tangled in the cotton of Sam’s undershirt.

They broke apart, panting, eyes glazed with need. Sam was staring at Steve’s mouth, and he licked the taste of him off his own lips. “You mean, when we did that?”

“Yeah. That’s… that’s what I meant.”

“You said it was just a cover. ‘Public display of affection.’”

“I might’ve lied.”

“Steve.”

“I might have a thing for you, Sam.”

Because Steve knew how to use his words, too. Contrary to popular belief.

Sam’s nerves slowly unknit themselves, and the pressure around his chest released. “Steve?”

“What, baby?”

“How do you lower this thing?” Sam felt around the bed rail for a locking lever. 

“Bruce didn’t want me to get up yet.”

“Don’t have to. We’re just gonna make that bed nice and small.”

Steve’s hand fumbled quickly for the lever, missing it a couple of times because he didn’t want to take his eyes off of Sam. The rail dropped with a low squeal of metal and thunked down against the frame of the bed.

“C’mere,” Steve husked. 

*

An hour later:

 

Tony’s face was blank when he exited the elevator at the third floor landing. Clint and Nat glanced up from the couch, where they were curled up together watching the plasma screen. “Hey. Stark,” Clint called out. “We’re getting pizza. You in?”

“As long as we’re eating it up here,” he said woodenly.

“What’s wrong?” Nat pressed, brows creating a little divot between them.

“Okay. So, I own the tower? I built the AI. And, you guys are supposed to be my friends? Or, y’know, at least pretend? And JARVIS, I’m blaming this on you, too,” Tony shouted up to the ceiling.

“Begging your pardon, sir. You seem … perplexed.”

“Sure.” Tony threw up his hand. “Perplexed. Let’s go with that.”

“Perplexed?” Bruce entered with his chai in hand and a book tucked under his arm. “Whatsamatter? Why are we using SAT words?”

“It’s been a long day,” Tony mused to Bruce. “I’ve had to redefine what constitutes a ‘normal’ day.” He made quotey fingers around it. “But nowhere in any semblance of reality should I be expected to see Steve Rogers’ naked ass TWICE in one afternoon.”

Even JARVIS was speechless for a moment. Bruce spilled his tea. Nat managed a straight face for exactly six seconds. Clint didn’t even _try_.

“I hate you all.”

*

“You’re so warm,” Sam murmured into Steve’s skin. “You always run this warm?”

“A couple of degrees warmer than normal. Just the serum.”

“Feels… good.”

“So do you.”

“Shea butter. Every time I get out of the shower.”

“I’ll put that on the list.”

Sam was curled around Steve’s good side, drowsy and lax. His limbs were limp, but his fingers drew little patterns over Steve’s skin. “Can’t move.”

“Don’t have to.”

“How long til Banner clears you to get out of here?”

“Should be pretty soon. Just wants to make sure I’m not hypothermic anymore,” Steve reasoned. “So I don’t have a relapse. He said I need medical attention for a while, just so I don’t overdo it.”

“Steve?” Sam lifted his head from Steve’s chest and smiled down at him smugly. “I’m a medic.”

Steve’s good hand cupped Sam’s nape and pulled him down into a scorching kiss.

*

 

Baking wasn’t Steve’s strong suit. Sam watched him unpack the Safeway bags and set down two rolls of Pillsbury cookie dough on the counter and folded his arms. “That’s pitiful.”

“Humor me, Sam. Movie Night means baked goods of dubious quality and popcorn with artificial butter. Which I _still_ think is a sacrilege…” He held up his hands in defeat before fishing the box of Pop Secret out of the bag. “ _Someone_ insisted.”

“Man, I love the other kind, don’t get me wrong. Quit your pouting. Let’s get this going so we can start the movie. And we’re not barbarians here. Wash your hands, Romeo.”

“Awwww.” Steve looked smug at the pet name, and Sam snickered when Steve closed in on him, bracketing him in against the counter, hands sliding around Sam’s waist. “Sam _likes_ me, likes me.”

“No clue why.”

Steve pouted, lower lip all the way out. 

“See? You’re shameless. What was I thinking-”

Steve engulfed him in a hard, searching kiss, and he worked his thigh between his, grinding temptingly against Sam. Sam fisted his hands in the open flaps of Steve’s leather jacket, letting the kiss run on autopilot. Steve nipped at him, sucking on Sam’s lower lip, and Sam opened for him, zero fucks to give about seeming “eager.” Steve’s tongue swept inside his mouth, a direct invitation. 

His man brought him junk food and his hands were slipping up under his shirt, tracing over his skin and giving him shivers all over. Steve was already hard… _Lord, help me._

“Sure you want that movie now?” Steve murmured between kisses.

“If we do this now, I’m gonna be knocked out. And I have to get this back to Red Box tomorrow.”

“Killjoy. You’re a killjoy, Wilson.” Steve pulled away and gave Sam’s hip a little swat. 

“Ninety-five years old, and still a child,” Sam tsked. “If you behave yourself, I _might_ share some of this cookie dough.”

Steve quirked his brow at him.

“Don’t give me that look. Lord, I had to love myself a heathen…”

“Cookie dough, huh?” Steve retrieved a knife from the block and sliced open the seam of the roll, exposing the slick, beige surface, and while Sam watched, Steve tweaked off a thick piece and held it out to Sam.

“You’re deranged…”

“Taste it, Sam.” His lips were a pink, sinful curl as he held out the morsel. “C’mon. Taste it.”

“I know how it tastes!” he argued, snickering at the slightly cheesy (but still hot) way that Steve was watching him. He kept bringing the dough toward Sam’s mouth.

“You need a reminder.”

“I don’t know why I indulge you.” Sam took Steve’s hand, giving him a stern look that didn’t quite land. And he was still staring up into those blue eyes when he leaned down and closed his lips around Steve’s finger and thumb, sucking up the sweet dough and drawing on Steve’s digits. Steve felt the faint kick of lust in his loins at the suction of Sam’s mouth and the way his cheeks hollowed with the effort. Sam made an _indecent_ noise as he pocketed the dough in his cheek and continued to suckle Steve’s index finger, twirling his tongue around the tip to capture those last little grains of sugar.

Steve’s eyes were dark. His voice was a hoarse croak. “You need another taste.” He pinched up another piece as Sam swallowed the first one.

“Defeats the whole purpose of _baking_ it.”

“Screw baking it. Here. Have som-” His voice trailed off as Sam took his time consuming it from his fingers. Steve was flushed, and he let Sam take his sweet time sucking off the fragments of dough, then repeated the gesture for his thumb. The visual of that mouth drawing him inside made Steve’s jeans feel too snug. “Taste good?”

Sam nodded, his hum of agreement vibrating through Steve’s skin. “Good,” he told him, voice garbled. He returned to the index finger and drew it further into his mouth, all the way to the second knuckle. “Gonna run it off tomorrow,” he explained.

“Run?” Steve asked. His voice was low and made Sam flush with want. “You think you’re gonna run tomorrow, Wilson?”

“Unless you have any other ideas about how you wanna work this off?”

Steve lunged in for a kiss that made Sam forget his own name. Sam’s hands crept inside Steve’s jacket, tugging the hem of his shirt out from the waistband of his jeans before he fumbled with the button atop the fly. Steve was shrugging out of his jacket, then let his hands resume roaming over the contours of Sam’s body, still compact and toned. Steve reached up and gripped the back of his tee, tugging it off in one yank that interrupted their kiss, but then his mouth was back on Sam, greedy and hot, trailing fire wherever it touched. Sam craned his neck back to give Steve room to explore, and Sam was arched back against the counter, forced to crane his neck up if he wanted to kiss Steve properly.

“Wanna go in the fort?” Sam teased.

“Thought we were gonna eat popcorn in the fort?”

“We’ll get to that.” Steve’s hand were just as impatient with Sam’s clothing. He discarded Sam’s soft blue green polo shirt, replacing it with his hands, touching his newly bared skin. “Anyone ever tell you you’re hot?”

“Let’s pretend they don’t. I wanna hear you say it again,” Sam rasped as their hands fumbled with zippers. They half-stumbled their way out of the kitchen into Sam’s living room, which was beginning to feel like _their_ living room over the past few weeks. They occasionally put mileage in on Steve’s new couch, but it wasn’t as comfy as Sam’s, overstuffed and upholstered in brown suede cloth, with a fluffy afghan blanket laid over the lower cushions to discourage stains. Steve liked the blanket’s nubby texture against his back when Sam rode him. He liked the view of Sam from on his back, especially that look he got whenever he was close, swept up on how it felt to have Steve deep inside, staring down at him through those long, thick lashes. Sam Wilson was damn near perfect, anyway, but _naked_ Sam made Steve wonder what he ever did right in his life to deserve him. He doubted himself sometimes, but this wasn’t the time for doubt. 

This was the time to get Sam out of those tight jeans that drove him nuts all day long. They reached the edge of the couch, which, unsurprisingly, was already draped with a blanket and extended up and over the top of one of Sam’s dining room chairs, and that draped over the other edge of the coffee table, forming a cozy little tent. Sam’s jeans dropped around his ankles, and Steve helped him step out of them.

“You feel good,” Steve told him, hands pulling Sam against him, gripping his waist so he could grind up against him again, his bulge rising up over the crest of his open zipper. Plain white briefts. Sam wouldn’t judge him. He just wanted them _off_. But it felt good to rub up on him through the rough denim, stimulating his already hard cock that was already straining between them and leaking. Steve slid his hand down between them and cupped him. “That for me, baby?”

“Who’d you think it was for?” Sam teased him, lapping at Steve’s throat in lush, hot little swivels, but he was humming in approval of how good Steve’s grip felt, hard enough to make him twitch and strain further into it. Sam worked Steve’s jeans down - relaxed fit, Steve, really? - and Steve almost tripped over them in his eagerness, but they were sliding against each other, a precursor of what was coming, dark blue briefs abrading the surface of white until Steve’s hands slid inside Sam’s. He palmed and kneaded the lush curve of Sam’s ass.

“This for me, too?”

“Yeah,” Sam assured him. “All for you.” And damn it, he loved this man, would do anything to be under him and losing his damned mind. Steven. 

Rogers.

Had.

Skills.

Steve couldn’t just strip off his briefs. He kept his hand inside, fingertips skimming inside Sam’s cleft. Having him so close to where he wanted him was making Sam’s senses buzz with arousal, the heady scent of his pheromones and the lingering remnant of his shampoo and deodorant. Steve’s skin tasted spicy on Sam’s tongue as he mouthed at him, just riding Steve’s bulge where they stood. Sam lapped at Steve’s collarbones.

“Love when you do that,” Steve whispered. “God, you’re fine, Sam…”

“Tell me again.”

“You’re fine. So fine, Samuel…”

It was better when he used his full name. It sounded safe in Steve’s mouth, formed with that voice that licked over Sam’s nerve endings. Sam’s hands curled around Steve’s upper arms, molding the muscles and supporting himself because his legs felt like they were going to give out any minute. Steve was eager. 

“Want me to taste you, too, Sam?” Steve managed to prize Sam’s briefs off, working them impatiently down the broad, tapering columns of his thighs. His own briefs dropped soundlessly to the floor, and the leaking tip of his cock buffeted against Sam’s groin.

“Fuck…” He breathed the word, and Steve’s mouth roamed down the side of his throat, painting his clavicles, lingering over a small burn scar there, giving it a reverent kiss. 

Because every kiss down his body was fervent praise, every caress treasured his skin and spoke endearments to Sam’s essence, every ripple of sinew and flawless, taut limb. They sank to the floor, and Sam eased his way back, glad he’d vacuumed the carpet that morning. Steve stretched himself over him and settled himself into the planes of Sam’s body, fitting them together so he could drink kisses from Sam’s mouth. And then he began to grind and thrust against him in the slow rhythm that Sam loved. His hands roved over Steve’s supple body, arms twining around his neck.

“Taste good,” Steve rasped, and he lipped at Sam’s pecs, tracing its curve with heat, gradually zeroing in on his nipple, already stiff with the anticipation of Steve’s mouth. Steve baptized it, swirling the tip of his tongue around the hard, sweet nub. Sam arched into it, and he was relieved that his duplex had well-insulated walls. Steve could make him get loud.

Very.

Loud.

Steve was toying with both nipples, rolling the other between his fingers, and the shocks of pleasure were making Sam stiff and desperate. But Steve dawdled over his playthings, eyes shuttering in the pleasure of Sam’s taste on his tongue. Sam’s hips jerked, needing more attention below the waist. Steve gradually moved down his ribcage, mouthing over them, kissing a path down his abdomen that was faintly ticklish but that still drove him crazy.

Sam’s body was beautiful, a melody of taut curves and dark, smooth skin. He had a scant line of crisp hairs trailing down from his navel to his pubic bone, and Steve lapped at the dents of his groin. Sam’s cock strained, wanting to push up into that mouth. “You’re killing me…”

He coddled Sam in his grip, loose but familiar, the same hold he’d use on himself just to get to know himself better, in the shower with visions of Sam behind his closed eyes. Sam’s thighs drifted open while Steve nuzzled his sac, playing nice with it, breath stirring the coarse hairs. Then he mouthed each globe, and Sam arched, eyes rolling back in his head. He made a helpless noise and gripped Steve’s hair, holding himself back from pulling it, but he urged his head down to stay there before his fingers relaxed. Steve was focused on Sam’s needs, namely preparing him, taking his time and staking his claim. 

Steve loved Sam’s scent and his voice, the way he tipped his head back and closed those beautiful dark eyes when Steve did something that made him feel good. The Red Box movie was unopened on the coffee table, next to a bottle of Astroglide. They weren’t there yet.

Not with Sam’s cock, hard and twitching, practically pushing itself toward Steve’s lips. Steve lightly lifted it and licked neatly up the underside, tracing the thick, turgid vein.

Sam didn’t even _try_ to be quiet. Steve did it again, prying another long, needy cry from him. He was wrecking him, bit by bit, and enjoying himself in the process, more than was decent. More than was considered _human_.

When Steve finally drew him all the way inside, he was speaking in tongues. Long, swirling strokes as Steve bobbed his head. Lush warmth and slickness wrapped around Sam as Steve gripped his thighs. He enjoyed the contrast of their skin tones, Steve’s hand against the curve of his knee as he kept them pried apart. 

He sucked him nearly to completion, then backed off. Sam was leaking, about to spill, but Steve slowed down, lapping at his taint, spreading Sam open with his thumbs. He breathed over the tiny pucker, and Sam braced himself for the first stroke of that-

His eyes snapped open with the first velvety caress. Sam gripped the leg of the coffee table and bit his own arm to stifle his cries. “Don’t,” Steve chided him. “Wanna hear ya. Don’t you dare stop. S’hot, Sam. Y’hear me? I love when you can’t help yourself…”

“Steve…”

“So pretty when you look like that.” And Steve was done talking. His tongue slipped inside, gently moving past his defenses, and Sam slowly went boneless. He was still aroused, not quite as erect, but he basked in the sensations of the lapping caresses, the loose hold Steve had of his thighs. Sam’s voice grew hoarse. He saw Steve’s face, jaw dropped open as he readied Sam, the journey just as vital as the destination.

He was more than ready for Steve’s fingers, slicked with the clear gel, enjoying the slide of of the first inside him. Sam clenched his muscles around him until Steve scolded him to relax, but it felt good, drawing Steve’s hand further inside. He wanted Steve there, pulsing and throbbing, bringing them as close as two people could get. Sam always wanted to be as close to Steve as he’d let him. No more “space.” No more excuses. No more pretending that he didn’t love Steve and his dirty drawers. And no more denying that when Steve looked at him like that, said his name that way or touched him like that, he was head-over-fucking-heels in love with Sam Wilson, too.

He didn’t rush the second finger or the slow, curling thrusts of his hand. When they brushed Sam’s prostate, Sam’s vision glazed for a second, then his breath gusted out in a rush. More insistent thrusts, fingers spreading and curling to ease the way. Loving Sam should never be rushed. Sam thrust down onto Steve’s fingers, and Steve hovered over Sam, nibbling tiny kisses down the side of Sam’s neck. The third finger encountered a little resistance, but Sam let him in, pushing through the slight, cramping ache. 

Steve loved Sam’s thighs most when his knees were hooked over his shoulders, Steve’s hands molding those muscles and massaging the tightness out of them as he entered Sam. Steve was coming undone, wrapped up in Sam as he pulsed around him, squeezing him…

“S’good. Feels so good.”

Sam couldn’t form words. Passion robbed him of them, and all he allowed himself to do was feel. He was hard, swollen and dripping, and Steve reached down to touch him, to offer him some relief. “Stroke it,” Sam pleaded, “c’mon, baby. Touch me.”

“Yeah,” Steve rasped, thrusting harder before Sam could even ask. He sped up, and Sam was a sight, skin flushed and gleaming with sweat, body practically curled in half as Steve thrust into him. “You like that.”

“I like it.”

“You like it nice and hard.”

“Please.”

“When I get up inside you, Sam. Nice and hard in that tight, sweet ass?”

Jesus, Steve had a mouth on him. Steve finally told JARVIS to follow “sleep” protocols and to turn off the comms in their suite - they shared one, now - in the tower. Some things just shouldn’t be overheard. And Steve wanted Sam’s begging cries and the way he said Steve’s name all to himself. Steve reached up to Sam’s mouth, tracing the curve of that mouth with his fingertip. Sam opened for him, sucking him inside again, matching the way he was pulling on Steve, just as hot and slick. The sight of Sam’s mouth… sweet _Lord_. Mimicking that thrusting, his fair finger finding a home between those dark, ripe lips…

Steve was about to burst. He was grinding, pounding away, and he pulled his hand free. His thighs burned, but his own climax was working its way into his lower spine. “Sam,” he croaked. “M’close…”

“Harder,” Sam managed, eyes glazed and dilated, so trusting and full of love. “Just a little more, baby… you feel so good…”

Praise. In that voice he loved. Steve’s hips pistoned, hips slamming into Sam for a few more desperate strokes before Sam came, spurting over Steve’s knuckles, spraying gleaming, milky streaks over his abdomen, and Sam’s face… oh, God. Just the sight of it, lax with bliss, eyes rolling shut, his skin flushed and radiant, was just… so…

Steve’s body arched and bucked, hips slamming into Sam unevenly, fingers digging into Sam’s thighs. His eyes were wide, face stunned at the intensity of his climax, mouth locked in an ‘O’ of satisfaction. His voice was choked as he pumped Sam full of hot, sticky seed. Steve was spent, practically teetering where he knelt, legs burning.

He lifted his trembling hand to his mouth and tasted what was left of Sam from his knuckles. Sam had learned over the past few months that look - that gesture - meant one thing.

Rest. Cuddle. 

Round.

Two.

The couch afghan found its way down to the floor. They sprawled in a contented heap of limbs and steadily rising, falling chests. Matching heartbeats and reverent touches. Kisses that landed wherever they wanted. They polished off one loaf of cookie dough that went nowhere near a baking sheet. Sam renewed the Red Box rental the next morning and they lounged all day on the couch, under the afghan in ugly pajamas.

Sam’s taste in men wasn’t questionable. He had a type: Devoted. Easily embarrassed. Unfinicky eater. And willing to be Sam’s own personal space heater.

Nat still gave them a hard time about the soup, though.

FIN.


End file.
